Long was it that fancied I a ramble on the ceiling again, my languor keeping me strangely sane. Alas! Why this distaste on my tongue? I devoured some flesh today.
Am I not here to speak of quondam quest of meaning - sought I but a monster in me.
What 'tis keeps that my voice still? Less is it for thee, and more for what did me eyne see.
Not more than on a try was it. Aha! - my fear of not finding an ounce.
Did I scribble the name of the Holy only to erase, yet profanity do I not evince. May He not read it thus.
Will me hands let descend a copse of my gratitude, its canopy however, echoing my apologies in numbers can me fingers not count. May I begin thus? May I?
But alas! Does not a glimpse, but a desire lam me bonce now - on sallow trepidation from boiling oil I hear this same sound once more, a hardening of some snack hath I had in me dreams seen.
In plan was it mine, in plan was it so incessantly day and night;
Alack! What did I do to gobble the delicacy nowhere but me dreams merely? What did I do wrong I ask. Must I be answered for torn was me soul this week.
A scheme my concoction more than me recipe of the dish;
Over a fire built that someone in disregard for me, was it there that beld this tip of my tongue seeking me elder sis' hands.
'Tis what clobbers me mind, but hath I something else to tell thee.
Hold up! Pray I, may thou not leave yet.

Sauntered I in languor of me body. I trod on the terrace right there, and to and fro exchanged me one foot for the other. So quietly did my feet fall on my mother's cement thou see; does this make her...