everything in
it's right place

And here I sit writing vapid prose, in our internecine world of war and conflict, of matters completely opposite. Basically, the crux is that the avuncular, senile man who once sold ice cream in our neighbourhood no longer comes around. Perhaps it was some higher supernatural power which deracinated the network of amity surrounding the old man. And I thought of his dilapidated ice cream cooler, as a microcosm of my air-conditioned room with it's cold fronts and hail storms. This silly juxtaposition, set out to obfuscate anyone who reads my languid journal (certainly not examplar in it's writing), is simply the narcoleptic product of my immense boredom.

All in all, my amateurish musings is merely a patina of fustian meant to cover my repines for that resplendent girl who lives around that corner.

This makes no sense but I do not care.