Why the heck am I writing melancholy stuff? Is it because I have nothing else to write? Maybe deep within I am missing my melancholy self. Or is it because I am way above all this crap? Is that me who is speaking? Why am I keying in this? Has the muse left you man? Have you become so old that your brain has frozen? I need a break. Look at all those questions I have asked. I avoided the question mark as it will make the previous sentence another question. So, where were we? Ah! We are in this man's muddled brain. See the grey cells aren't firing the way they ought to. He needs to be overhauled. Dude get me a spare brain from the refrigerator. Hey, you don't have permission for that. Only GOD has the power to do that. Then why the fuck do they call me Darwin?
All the rants and raves from a brain that has endured decades of anthropological abuse.
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