The ideal man is a man who is constantly looking past the superficial and temporary, extenuating byrating circumstances of his life. He can not stop and simply enjoy the sensory world as others do. He has trouble relating to others and is often struck by the superficial and enigmatic clinging that torates these happy souls. He is baffled by the pompous, boiig, and tick tock swair of flesh and bones. The aerated balloon which is life. Pop, pop, pop tick tock tock out goes the cat and he ain’t coming back. The confusing unordered sway of these poor souls. Unable to discern consistency but rather preferring to dance the dance of death. Sarcastic renegades consistent parodies. It is the world of chance, the place of change and yet so solemn in everyway. So incoherent and confused a joyous bustle never losed. A byratt chant a clashing clang a sorrow sounding epiphamy. A place to win a place to lose a place all full of apes and buffoons. A bulbous boast a slogy host the most will boast, the hoast can toast but whos got the most don‘t toast today. A horrid storm, a blistering wind, a sorrowful shame a slithering. A tall boy tail a short man fail so tail don’t fail and so sets sail. A gentle breeze a mystery and this is life I won’t be trite.
…my wife would beg to differ… 