My brain: an incessant essay with unstructured paragraphing and excess analogies, yet something in the syntax so mollifying.
The ink that I have wasted on my past is sometimes the only form of tangible clarity in the present.
Unfortunately, my typewriter often stutters on paraphrases and plagiarism, though my pernicious blessing of overactive neurons always seems elude such exigent situations.
I fall in love with punctuation that is of utmost relevance and universality, but I'm tumbling over my own pleonasm.
The ramifications of my inconsistency is is that I tend to bombard ears with clauses, but at night I dream of shouting without a single sound escaping my mouth.
Also, I hate anglicisms, although I know that the reality is inevitable.
A prose on how my mind works.
