presumably presumptive as you got zero clue of what stuff God made me, where I lay me down in the cool of moonbeam light, unsure if another sunrise will heat my body to awakening, surrendered to the unknowing knowingly, for I am so sure of so little, that I query with every torrential rain, why did I deserve this un-expectorated baptism for which and why, what I got, no clue
piety poet of the way spends his every waking glance thinking stinking, why? All the angels look away, forbidden to barest hint minimalist to protect and provide this rank random single specimen specific of living kind, his purpose for which creation came his way? so I’ll save you instead and the trouble of thinking for the correct answer to the question posed, hell sure, you my confidante of this confidence man, a lousy truth teller, and an even worse liar