The year behind me is blank and for that I blame myself, like some terrible lizard, it was broken thoughts that while folding time with punctuation that for my telling the truth it was challenged, now to tell you that this lunacy that is a navigable existence, once of sirens and now looking for both of them that this staggering metaphor would even unfold and that while truth was stranger than fiction, the results of the opposite were predictions come true, the validity unknown to me and you, and while that's really the best way to describe it, it has begun the way that mirrors close and windows open, while there might be some place for me to undo the old ways or improve the new, summarily this makes do, inasmuch as the story unfolds without us and what little else it'd be, as a backhanded way to delineate where'd I delegate, it keeps them between arms and lovers of war alive to fight it, and perhaps they will find Taurus and make us regret inchoative roles, but it still has become a grid without salutations, or thus hasn't become in fact, and will have to write to you, the reader, while the only story is vicarious and the vituperative hilarious, it was not where things should be and little else but lost without new, boring and trite, stories for me to write, to you the reader, you may want to unsubscribe, for the next 300 good days, let's hope they come within a year this time, yes?
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