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 proud of me? Does it?
Debouched I from a space so confined for not more than a trial 'twas and a trial was I playing meself with.
Oh hark me well thou the one listening with such caution! But to tell is tearing me heart asunder. I hold thy attention, but how may I tell thee thus?
Wait up this next phase of this moon do I not see, but above me rotunda is it - somewhere behind the clouds in blind man's buff with me. Am I out of me own sight now, but pushes me this nimbus, pushes me this stratus, pushes me this cumulus one by one.
The long dim shadows,
of surrounding trees,
the hooting sound of an owl,
with enchanting whispers of the breeze,
follow just as well do the wheels in a tandem. But where mine do I not know, or has it in the cascade of the drizzle become cold?
Spectated I some clouds of divine grey, a conglomerate of though invisible vapours, yet not humid is the air for me.
Black and grey - they embrace just this way;
dry and wet - may as well push past the lump so colossal in shape they make.
Will the wind carry them to front of the lamp lights that my street in this eventide - you see, that streetlight, yonder that only streetlight of the neighborhood chunders so much brightness, kissing every splinter hovers that in the air upfront its mouth.
Alas! what is it now?
What this thought that haunts me space above? Will a void clutch me palms must I haste? Must I haste now? What for?
This food will I cook, and serve meself some tears in a glass of some liquor.
What for then? Why must I haste!
But near the end will I anon. Am I a butcher too, and this an abattoir!
Was I a monster in the daylight I say, had I a ravenous mouth this noon. So slapped the sun me visage, me thighs, and me nape with winds cum blizzard of all the foregoing winters.
So must I leave me dear, of my kin hath I not found yet! Must I depart soon.
Keep this seat for me for mayhap, will me feet clamber upstairs seeking a shoulder for some ludicrous lament;
So must I bid adieu my love, oh my dear heart, one to assent for my muse when no artiste am I bereft of one doubt.
May thine rod compose this respite for me, and in hours dreary, hurl thy sight hither and thither looking for me.
Aha! but refuses me shadow to.
Heck! Am I so bothered. What a drivel 'tis that I see when this silhouette turns to thee?
Some terror is it, is it not?
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