There would have been time for such a word hereafter, and so difficult to get back under control, fair pink lips of the despot, tyrant of dream dispensation.
A poor, pitiful public figure begging pathos, aching for pathos, such as it is, but a little space of kilobytes in which to dispatch time and errant notion, that of the anterior of the bull's eye, naught for the mark, but a mark nonetheless, like an error mark, a carat of some impune, that the blogger was not the paragon, no, not that, but perhaps more Mr Belvedere than Sherman Howard, more Bufort Justice than Bufort Pusser.
Of a truth, but a few short hairs across the middle of the hand, and a word on a quiet Sunday night, while Yuki washes her hair, and I wait to paint her toenails. The life of a blogger: pictures of his fish, and such, his supper put digital for the world to inspect and hopefully approve of.
To an end to such, I suppose, there are times and places, and a stray report of Ace having put on age, which I scarcely believe, but then I intone, that when a man, I put away childish things, and I cleave to my wifi.
Why, its all gitterish and dimwittery, until they beg for a jest, then we bring up our garters and preach to them in earnest.
Not so easily brought off, or maybe so, but easily begged-off, the coming of age, and the decline and degradation and evaporation of responsibilities, witticism, and the seriousness, the marked gravity, of adulthood.
As I see, The Passion is aired so much in anticipation of Easter, and the little space in which they inhabit within the attention of the body public. A blood soaked love letter to the malaise eternal, and that without a jot of the Garden, Bereshit, and all, "Beginnings", the coming and going of the seasons, little causes to celebrate, only as good as we honor them, as for some, the Yuletide is just another day, and fingers in dam walls and such, the constant strain and pressure of the frisson existensiale.
A send-up it was, right proper, and dearly bought, a labor of love in as much as anything.
Then the venture capitalist, "visionaries", "seeing an opportunity", because it just happened, and they want to do the same; if fortune favored the brave, doth not originality come at a premium?
Gethsemane was a good yarn, and as was said, a Garden in and of itself, and today, a desert wasteland? What happened, fair science? John and Peter had difficulties staying awake, while blood poured from the Lord's eyes, and "nevertheless, as you would."
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