Occasional, But Hardly Often

As an awful philosopher/poet once mused, This is where mood twists in on itself, too tired to differentiate its various strands. The book itself (though I hesitate to put it in such esteemed company) elaborated along bland, broadly poetic, vaguely philosophical lines, none of which I'll be traversing, but the above introductory sentence (which took some cleaning up, I should add) does manage to inflict an inconsequential gash of rouge with its aimless stab at profundity. In the correct context, early morning emotions do woozily converge, sometimes to the point of numbness, and if you can tear yourself into the distance, it makes for a grimly amusing spectacle. That said, I don't mean the hitherto simply as context for the following, which would seem like the lowest of excuses in the circumstances. Nevertheless, it must be said that at this point, the more inroads the better.

And so we reach several hours beyond the spawning moment — quite an achievement in lieu of the majority hereon. Things of note? Well, the distant hymn of our nation's face giggling and applauding seems even more revolting from this distant vantage, although that's partly imagination's fault. And, interestingly, that bespectacled loud-shirt has advised me, indirectly, not to tinkle the ivory bowl just yet, lest it lead to problems down the tract. That was a metaphor, by the way. But despite the above's sinewy cadence, little of it links with the further above — a wooze of moods indeed. The gap has torn two distincts.

Though lacking the impressive temporal distance of the earlier two, this third helping (and at this point, I heavily stress that first syllable) has the advantage of cicularity — what an ugly word —, and here, adieu-less, it is: the evermentioned and bafflingly dog-eared edition alluded to hardly exists, particularly in a philosophical sense. But that, like Her respective parents' exporting professions, is of no importance of all.