something unprintable

The ensembles of activity leave much in the way of odoriferous contrails along this leading-edge mpombe. Was I not the major-meniscus of the charring-cross moment-scone that I had to grok the decay time mastery without the help of a bird-assistant? I should think so, because the mastery of the terminal process leads me to believe that I was absent at the focusing hour: now, focus is not something that I can seem to keep: there are all these other things happening and my attention is continually elsewhere. Some little art works, but most is distraction and noise and my covert attempts to see more clearly have been met with little but thin contrails of my own lack of focus. my own apparent dishevelled collage of mucilaginous inopprobrium, some wheezing mechanical insect running out of low molecular weight hydrocarbon fuel and just hoping for another continuation of the uneroded moment, a ticket to a train filled by artists and sand-gougers and other unseemly autocrats and autolysts and what-have-yous parading their dynarchic wheneverwhells against the particulate rich loam, rich in mineral deposits and other assorted molecular materials