MY WORLDLINESS
My worldliness might get in the way of all progress ever makable, except that my world allows me to stay dreamy enough to move mightily along. Never in touch with anything even remotely likely to be truly tangible, I now may hardly guess I'm attempting to construct on paper a rather valid series of recognizable vocables.
The world meanwhile surely exists. I also may in some measure or so possess a rather definite existence. I daily and momently feel bound to rediscover some monstrous set of apparent disconnections and of clearest inabilities. Even so, the basic processes of proceeding have ways of staying concertedly dimensional.
At any and every supposed juncture of my being whatever I might be, I must remain some horrible flailer. As I prepare my next meal, for example, I soon am renoticing an egregious normality I always might prefer to call "my galumphing." As if to incarnate and re-incarnate "Alice In Blunderland"(sick?), I grasp *this* and grab *that* and in such processes manage to prove, prove, and prove I'm no firm set of co-ordinates or of co-ordinations.
At this very moment -- this vastly unhistoric set of aspects of je-ne-sais-quoi -- I wield in a very unwieldy fashion a sort of language (Let us pretend!) plus a kind of pencil (Let me declare!). Along some great divide composed of silly bits of historicity may soon be arriving some news of relatively solid salvation. Meanwhile, you might permit me to emblematize an entire army of goodwill gestures. I detect no baker nor any true street.