I feel sick, sodden, beset with trivial complaints. I am full, or full of them, of "it"; I am? I was! will be... perhaps. This is a run on sentence, and a stream of conscious thought, although I'd hardly call it conscious. I'm flitting too much about, and there is too little interest in what it is I'm not saying. this could have been of meaning, and import. this could have been something for the ages, but instead it was just a monkey banging away at the keys. You'd need ten billion me's to produce the works of Shakespeare, and that so very saddens me. Put in my place as it were, I now resign myself to sleep. Good night.
