Supposedly there are, in fact, ways to be wonderful again, ways to make this happen at a time and place AND PACE —
Of total and utter aplomb, Actually. As we ALL know of nothing-else ANYMORE but to previoUSly prepare ourselves just so very ironclad AND well ANNNND with our fingers(sometimes fists and all of it hurried and FlUrRiEd-UP in an UTTER flusTeR of fighting-fit rage) pressed Jovially against this particular typewriter(of hers)which will ask (time-again/times-ten/times-a-million moments of magnanimous meanderings of mInD)
For fond forcing’s of forged forgiveness, actually. It’s been hEctIc-fAcEd and it’s DEFINITELY been aforementioned barbaric and they’ve EVEN defiantly gone against the groan-of-the-grain(!)
As we know NOT what-to-do anyhow other than to, once more, vivacioUSly implore our inescapable selves to escape this state of —
Done-and-dusted literary intelligence; what did we really get to tell anyone else (Anymore?) but for Ourselves
That it’s all-of-it been: what? A dire turn of phase-first phrase and we CANNOT believe that this game has been played —
And. At. Purely. Diagnosed. Pace.
Of settled, settled silences and other wise and said meandering tales — of purely piquant and pile-driven descriptive deception
