For fun

Ay! Caramba!  Another day has passed and I have added nothing to my blog.

So write something.

Like what?

Words.

Which words?

Ones that make sense when lined up.

A dollar bill can be exchanged for cents that I could line up.

Now you are making fun.

I have found making it is different from having it.

Are you speaking of fun or cents?

The cents required for a dollar makes sense since I’m writing nonsense evoking scents because I’m sure anyone reading this thinks it stinks.

The akscent being on stinks methinks brinks on powerfully bad writing which usually ends up in buying drinks and purple flying minks.

What?

I don’t know.  My mind wanders.

Everyone wonders what windows your eyes look through.

The glass for looking is smeared with silver beyond the pane.  In that shiny surface lives the reverse of your retina’s reception

We can never see how we be in the eyes of another.  In the glass our perception is an exception to reality.

Our brain may never recognize if our eyes saw through those lies that comprise what our eyes internalize reflection-wise.

Were you planning on making sense with your words?

Only cents with my dollar or ones from a five.

Money?  You want to talk of money?

No, economics makes no sense to me.  I only try to make sense when placing words one after another.

But, as you see, I only rents my words which should be obvious.  If I owned them they would make more cents. 

Confusion reigns here.

Ah, the rains of Spain’s fall mainly in the plains…

Wrong reign.

In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue due to cents acquired from Isabella and Ferdinand and not I or you.

Wrong time.

What is time?

The laying of actions in a line though often they make no sense.

Nor cents. 

That too.

The ocean blue, a vast disconnect between continents and peoples.  A watery grave for many a hapless sailor.

So these words placed side by side make sense of a sort in sentence length allotments but as a whole…

Yes, a hole in the mind.  A well if you would made of wood or stone to be dipped into.

Well, well. Once again into the dark ness of the well.

It must be primed if you want to use the handle provided.

It is very deep for such shallow words made into shallow thoughts.

It’s the syllables of which you speak?

Partially.

Ah, I see you spoke three.  One needs more to deepen the core of what is written.

Polysyllabic words do not a deep thought make.

But it can obfuscate.

Inundate the broad estate of mind clasped in the breech of thought entangled in the wind of words on a page can enrage.

It can also assuage.  Or place in a cage.

Escape is found in words renowned in documents so sound in legal fare entombments there.

Come again to the shore of simple wavelets alapping, slap, slap, slapping the shore to erode the core of ever more.   I am a boor.

Let’s stop this tour onto the floor of your store of simplistic words you’ve rented. 

Yes, there’s the door shut to amour slammed with a roar.

Yes so poor your lore before we implore no more.

Tis done this one.  T’was fun? Lose the gun hon…