One of the most frustrating things about being human is the answers are so obvious even a child could understand.  Can the ramifications of self be a controlled sequence or are we left with naught but chicanery's dynamisms on the fealty.  It's like the depths of pervasion as opposed to the heights of possibility when everybody knows it's an oblong sideways.

I have an old guitar named Gypsy Queen.  Normally this would not be much of a momentous occasion, lots of people name their guitars,but Gypsy is hand made by me.  Many moons ago when my ex wife was pregnant with my only child, a daughter, I took an adult education night class while I was attending college as a day job.  Our instructor had recently taken a trip to Canada to buy wood as he made his living building custom guitars and he had some of the most beautiful birds eye maple I'd ever seen and also some very good spruce for the top of the guitar.  We met at the local high-school's woodshop classroom.  I knew all the power tools there having taken wood shop twice in middle school and again in high-school.  From raw lumber I fashioned her pieces, sides, three piece back, neck, keyboard (made from some exotic ebony my instructor had), and top.  While my wife was patiently waddling about the house I shaped and sanded those pieces on our living room floor.  The interior struts, the binding, and frets for the keyboard had to be created as well.  When I finally got her glued and assembled she was quite a sight, almost perfect in every way, and the quality wood she was made from was so beautiful I had never seen the likes of her before.  Most of the people in the class didn't get that far not having the skills with the tools or the coordination necessary to succeed.  Still she needed to be lacquered and finished.  All told, special tools and accouterments, cost of the wood, glue and sandpaper, plus the frets (nickeled silver), and the grover tuning pegs she cost me about $160.  But almost 500hrs labor went into her creation, whole free weekends spent sanding and shaping.  It was a year or more before I finally got her lacquered and she was so beautiful I could scarce believe I had made her, totally from scratch.  I had even inlaid her mother of pearl keyboard art, god she was a sight.  Both she, and my daughter, are now close to 40 years old, and she still plays like a champ.  Ask any guitarist about guitars they use a lot, see how many survive that long.  She's my prized possession to this day.  Her custom bridge is shaped like a bird (something I've never seen to this day anywhere else) and I'd put her sound up against any expensive Martin made.  Plus she is so much prettier.  She's old and her finish is crackled some but her neck is still true and her action is superb.  Through the years she has brought me so much joy, I'm so glad I took that class.  I hope she survives till I die cause I want to mix her ashes with mine before they get spread around by my friends.  I'll want something to play in the afterlife.

Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.

The black hole’s emanations attempted to fill the gap in galactic  infiniteness as all spiraled down to its new beginnings while residual harmonic vibrations honed the forms of its becoming .

The insect’s hum buzzed harmoniously almost melodiously in  syncopated integrated vibrations as it flew across the room , out the door and into the night sky .

The ship’s deck rolled and pitched as hurricane weather smashed and  shattered its empty hull against the wooden dock .

The blazing core of the comet streaked across the sky as it decomposed  in the atmosphere and extinguished its self in the ocean .

The blazing light of innumerable suns chaotic radioactive glair was almost audible like sounds of distant campfires as the last bits of wood crackled into embers beneath the starry sky .

In the one hand, that of the exploiters, an invidiously assimilative desire for the trappings of royalty.  In the other a lust for a universally applicable goodness, that we all might share in the profusely prolific profundity.