Hello there! Yes, this is a letter, for sooner or later we might all be in application. Therefore, welcome! Pleasant it is as if too deliberate an attempt shot down, looking for you in the eye whilst reading this, I think, Gee whizz, they is checking it out on their journey through my phone (Is this true?) sending this or that around the spine in shivers of quite well. Plus, is this not proof that you care? Well, perhaps not.
Regardless, feel if you like, to check out my "documents" residing here, as in many cases with me, though in no means more than just the finest. You will find all words of smut as if living in many things. Mostly it is pure horse-swoggle. Of course, perhaps you don't care for horse-swoggle and so don't read. I understand. Who wants to read, or likes being asked to listen to and to comment upon, a swoggled horse? And under your own roof to boot! Plus, is it not rather like being asked to heart the absurdist dreams of someone else when, poor horse, passed off as poetry is commandered to be read? Glog.
If you do go to all of the trouble by reading a couple two versions of this, a masochism built through raising a fever dream of common themes from this or that, it may lead you to believe they are (just) a silly poem, and with severe Bablefish problems to boot. Nor is this not true. For everything basically here is chopped so much and so many times so dissimilar, that as you may have noticed, they might share a common belief, which belief that would be, it is seems, the writer am confused. But really, in real life they is just translation engineered and/or a cut-up or two of that which wrote over a year ago or two, plus many last week and tonight today. All here, mostly ("They come out at night, mostly." sayeth the Newt) have been set down distorted as drifting apart wrenched, such that they, of their originals, retain very few familiars. But still, I prefer the way that they look. It is how I turn up my ringtone. And here too as mentioned, does one find smut. Yes one does. But it is a heartfelt smut, and as good as browsing (debatable), especially where the endless fiddling with is an exacting alternative. Is it OK? No one knows. It is loved (real or imagined) and loved is its life such as that is, though rather infrequent at that. Mostly obsessed over here in this way of endless tinkering instead of action taking.
Anyway, if you here are still around by this letter mayhaps at this application I continually will refresh, but, probably I will not.