better to write a decent joke, most esp. with the dark humour of the english, i.e. sarcasm, that venom of hilarity, than to fathom an ounce of pity, esp. self-depreciative pity: i.e. wallowing in one's own thought-feces... much easier to look at a cat still fascinated by a yarn ball, than one's own cognitive muddle; doubt? only an emotional medium, fascinating upon reaching the piquant zenith of itching, titillation... slightly resembling the loss trust, in the medium of love.

and indeed, by the time i reached
aphorism 142 of ponderings V
did the question of *style emerge
in heidegger -
    my my, what a muddle indeed...
but since i am not exactly systematic
in my endeavour, ergo: always at the altar
of spontaneity,
  with my thought acting as a rubber band,
stretching, and stretching within
the confines of res vanus - to then a sudden
release(!); well, i have to say:
poets say the least, philosophers say the most,
poets write a few words,
whereby philosophers: fill in the gaps;
and no, i never had the ambition
to recognise diacritical marks as
intra-punctuation indicators (within words)
to distinguish them from inter-punctuation
indicators (between words)...
      but then again...
life is like a box of chocolates
                        (surd on the second o),
you never know what you're gonna geet;
concerning the brackets...
  huh?! well, you silence the g in 'nome
  and the g in 'nostic...
     so... who the **** reads that word
as sho-co-laté?
                          might as well write
in ugly english (or... the morning after
aesthetic of english): choclet.