ne'er do well.

Not this again. Same old same old. Progression (nay, Progresso? nay, Processo?) A procession of misdirected communications all piling up in the milk storm of the moment! All heady and paradoxical and graywashed with enigmatical pronouns and pronouncements. Was I at all consulted? Barely. I could count it on my own two toes how many times someone asked me what I thought, or how many occasions I actually had to hang out, or to relax. Most of the time I was given to a fervor, a goading and a curl that was not my own: these noneffervescent gewamacaws of circumstance being my less than favorite icons of my own confinement in this H-shaped office block. Keep me away from my preferred console and on one less than functional will you? I cry at this, my hands a suffering symphony of miswritten epistles and bandied doggerel and disgusting false-poems. My distraction takes enormous ear-wellings of terror to raise it to the level where I can complain appropriately to those who I believe should hear me. I am thence sad, and wrung forth from my hands is this scrying cry of a madman, of a lonely soul drifting in the ink ether.