Hoping nothing won’t happen again, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski) 

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce. 

Spontaneity backs up position vectors (thinking and acting). 

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — far better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian. 
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.