Kriekgeguard: Sö tall meh how ya doeth wit despair,
and all fir of flams flewing and chewing yir up,
that the hole time yir piercenality waz,
so streing to solve it, but yir did it,
in wreighting of odders wreighting yirself down,
for yirs and yirs and yirs, the hole time
and wie all wanted tingz easey,
sö as yi sayeth, you maketh things hart,
möre difficult for understanding,
how to deal cards with comeflict
as it is with the absolutelysurd world?
Crosstianity, come thinkets, is nothing 'ese aftir all.
So cometh rill empairic, roll yir thongue.
Tall true the true tailing.

Sore: Tired Ae got.
But righting is noting,
it is a smull bud of rose,
and roses out of noting,
Ignore how day and day only tell you:
"You are a great prose stylist, you know the craft, I don't"
For a fukd, Ae might be called a prose cyclist,
but it is not me, it is the kisses muse,
you never forget it for a fukd,
first you note in, then you synthesize, symphonise, syncrosise.
It is all just music.