"That is the lean,
I see,
Foes in a bowl and rice on the plate,
No black ice or else you do not play,
That is why I,
Contrary,
Missed it down on the ground,
On the mice hitlist,
Trying,
To whitewash this place,
Saying the S.L.E.,
Such sloughing done slowly,
That's akin to watching my own facelift,
Earning like space,
Call a sleigh,
And make certainly to state your taste,
Forget catfishing instead of a cluck case at least,
Do not read into it!,
Go at your own pace!"
Every account of historical fiction must be accompanied by the written word. Really, must it? I take safety in knowing where things are connected to and not necessarily where things are from, but where I will see them again. Take a dead author. Facetious, I know, doing anything to get the image of dead presidents across which the rap game made the images of money very catching.
A person who lives to tell a story is invaluable. So what? Is a dead author supposed to be indispensable? Because it is not like I wasted him. That is, not unless I did the book in, done in. But quotes? My aim here, of this series by its nature, don't do the author justice. Dead or alive.
My aim is not justice. I knew, once upon the time that I'd be one of very few to read my stuff that justice was served even if I wanted the buffet or even if I barely noticed it like chomping on gum. What you will come to find here is a safety net and not to underlay or downplay this, but for those who are true seekers of my preponderance of wise cracks, how about a fathoming?
Like I have said before. Let not your spoils be that you're only intrigued by who I am now. I've been doing this, here, now, done did that and another thing of all things put together. I was twelve and passed for 21. I was eleven and tried out for 16. What is the true motivation or stanchion siphoning off your mirth in the cup or fountain of youth? For all I care, you can be a 100 and act like a septugenarian or vice versa. How about gaining what you want by a fathom of what some body of who so is age old that you pick from the litterbox of ages. Blessed be the sand building instruments up to and including the centuries-and-milleniae old Sphinx.
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