not inclined for this day, but maybe tomorrow could be more knuckled

New acts, whatever they may be, settle for less in the forward apt, taking tines and making for teeth in rows of unrest, not qualifiable, and nowhere near as golden-oldie hue that you'd muster or reckon those masticating points were all about, as said points were mere periods, tiny typewritten dots, minuscule, practically unimportant, or seemingly as such, when in fact those ambling little spots, specks on the course of a sheet of paper or tree-lined boulevard from yesteryear's sepia-soaked coffee hangover, had cues and uses unknown and, likewise, quite emeritus, still functioning after eons having scored all those soapy cloths, wrenched earnings and dissertations, glum face after glum face, piled on like standup comedians, each and every one of them, all in a formidable line, coughing puns that only pass from the lips of the young, tightening their belts to provide winds of ample gas passage to toss onto the podium, topple the lectern, and shit milky mewling responses to denture-wearing might, without repent or kindness, moralities still in-wait, and ultimately lost, a sauce and brew of weekly periodical stammering that, given enough time, would appear memorable, as if trapped in a loop where it all sounded at once brazen and comfortable, but was merely penultimate to the shock of the old, a foolish notion so dear and frail, pecked by birds and dirty underwear, sheathed in hangnails and mustard-colored file cabinets, lowing softly, reminding itself that it still had currency, but new growths had replaced everything in a pallor of aluminum and autumn breath.