saddle promontories fungibilizing their creaking gleam

Can't bring peace, can't bring war, dry gray fronds scatter in the
scintilla of the other-sun, the other story, the aching bringing peace,
whose authorship? Whose story? Lives aren't stories, where does this begin?
Which central drama thus enacted is the distributed collection of
thematic prosodies for which future entanglements are scarred, scorred,
embalmed in love letters and tripthongs and uncertainties about intent and resource providences: I don't know, that calculus eludes me in a 'will you stay around, I've got Rust-and-Abbadonment issues to somehow apply the apropos mix of WD-(n+1) and I think my mimicry of a collection of newspapers rotting in the mud requiring tonics and ichors is becoming somewhat annealed' which I've just past the energy to engage in conversation about. Being direct? Being indirect? Being misdirected? Being misread? Can I close read the text and determine the motivations of the participlants? Or are they particifungal? Or particular? Or grammatical particles being accelerated at astonishing semantic velocities in a linguistic collider? Xenia and hygge scant, scattered to West-Green wind and my emotional accountants are currently being subpoena'd by some (n)-cameral legislative assembly. The honorable Tempublicratic representive from Noshoeno province is convinced that there's emotional self-embezzelment going on and wants those aforesaid accountants to confess their changing a '3' to a 2' on line 2109 of the Galactic Emotional Register, and the accountants, for whom the GER is a vaporous plume, have no idea what the representative is talking about. At least there's no great concern about the muon solenoids in the previously mentioned accelerator: the line items for that would induce a mantis shrimp go to their visual perception allergist and demand a large gray square some eighty meters on a side and guaranteed to be of homogenous color in one part of 10^17th. If I lean against a wall, I'll fall over, and I've been too close to shattering for a very long time: fortunately living situation is improved, and despite, (looks at the Eigenculture and bemoans that it's not 402,091 years in the future), I don't entertain any desire
to fall over and fragment. Alas and alack, light and color and strange patterns are easier for me to cope with than this 'what are your intentions, desires, preferred self-actualization navigation plans for the top of Maslow's hierarchy' shuffle. That kind of attritive flight-planning "one day we had clearance to go to Mynotta, and the next day we had to rehash the language about paragraph 130 of the flight plan about the diet of the symbiotic octagons our conveyance was carrying because the director thought they needed just fourteen more calcium atoms a day and that disrupted the rest of the computations, and the next day we were halfway to Plortmon" drives me to some combination of apoplexy and bonkers.