I have been wanting to write something in an autobiographical vein, but the temperature, and dozens of sudden, unexpected bouts of masturbation, have kept me from instituting any sort of observational mechanism, or experiencing what one might call a "comparative revelation", and I remain unperceptive, and crusted in dried secretions, to this very second.
Unforeseen circumstances, wretched and withdrawn into constellations, pose threats, strike stances toward the pregnant belly of my knowledge, while congruently, invisible conglomerates, responsible for pitching hope to the pad and the digits, manufacture another type of revelation, and facilitate the metamorphosis, the transubstantiation, of an everlasting colloquialist phoneme. It is a challenge to grip this, to squeeze it all.
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