Feeling well and arch is quite wonderful, but how so when all is bleak and all one wants is the grace of Elysian fields, oh, West Wind carry away this taunting series of emotion like a lark carries spirits across a dusky sky. Grant the indomitable lift that will prevent drag and promote propulsion, let all be supple and ripe. Little social tittles must not argue their way amongst this destined occasion, this ordained practice.

To what is read and spoken here, fear and desperation, loss while among pursuit of Mighty things. What more can be asked than to accept the outlier, coming to maleable terms with burbling brooks, burping brain bashing thoughts to an otherwise sought normalcy.

How can I take myself seriously when this is my serious face?