trying to say something rather rushedly. because lyf is short.

Had the beginning of time been doctored by an excellent confusing person oh ask me if I care the wildly passionate throngs of love that the division by zero error propagated through her orbifolds oh what a slam how many times did the divisive commentary enjamb with the collection of virtuous vitriol oh make the right combination of coy and unambiguous tensegrity astringents collide in some neutrino structure ten gigaparsecs from here oh, ow, I'm not sorry but we're moving at a delightfully slow speed of one milliquargle, which is sun rosa go ask my bus station marimba metal strewn and thewn and comprised of fire go burn the wood molecule I have a cellulose decay stranglehold on someone's other other makeshift lusty dregs for some sports be painful and I'm not the brakeshift manifold sifter that demanded the transition to fire oh Lord Govorrongoa if the time of the thinly strewn echoes had come to an end was it Arjun or Nagarjuna that I'd heard when the paradoxical extenders to my multiple mris people coated, coating in plastic they've not turned to saponingrocers or greengrocers or other art-monglers that I had my own pretense of mastery, my own combustible prehensile declaration of gyroscopic stability I'd balanced myself on a Calabi-Yau manifold and wasn't certain that such stability was long lasting I needed to find the exact point of balance and then begin my solar-sextant-orrerying from another balanced granite vantage point I could hear the sitar playing and what a clean opera it was going to be. My fury, such that it isn't, is made from the clear and present incomprehensible incomparable itemica that escapes derision and accomplishes the transition across the major arroyo-complexes once a nahamabe. If you look at the outliers, the stragglers, the parenthetical leaders, and the other assorted excessigesimals who occupy the regions of Striated Time, I might ask of you to volunteer to serve tea, to learn one's social graces in a Bee Factory (where they make bees), to be aware of the aspect of expression, the furious and context-rich smorgasbord of information that the dog-arrhes and their panache might have you execute the tertiary opening because the expression of the fundamental tone, of the Cosmic Hum, oh, wait a minute, you thought me mad, you thought me Lunatick and unbalanced and oheeea, Gooh and gerania made the tenor of the message that I had in mind so very hard to explicate and plainly express for the audience that I desired because I had my own shorthand, a language that I had devised with some notable shorthands from some odd jargons and argots.