The Story That Doesn't Tell A Story

where was the whereabouts of the wobbly welshmans mental process?

Was it weathered by the winds of a whacked out, cracked out, stout and steady stroller of the meandering sort?

You know -- a troll looking fellow by the odd name of Susan?

huh. so you haven't met that fellow, eh? Interesting I say to you dearest of readers my dear. Dear in the headlights my reader. It's not your fault-- it's mine. Such a shame to be in control of a poor readers destiny only to bat them around like an injured mouse in the cats claw...and then exhilerating as well, for the ill intented writerly cat if you will. Especially when I, so fleshily, reveal my mistakes in this form as my face would perform its inadequecies if you met me in person, as well as simultaneously platform my beauty, without a single thought on my part for the setting of features is over and done like the setting of the sun rotates away -- earth spun, seemingly gone, only to once again come around-- and though that is niether here nor there I remain so invested in the interests of these tiny insect tests.

I inspect this world of human mess.

I respect this world like a game of chess.

I reflect this world, introspectively, I could confess.

I dissect this world with mentally tired words, moral-less.

I dialect this world-- tongue twisting around in my saliva stress.


The End

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