Summer Scriv

Summer is a breeze of frustrations, angers, and impatiences. Its definition is a verse reflection, written in paragraph case. I'm a broad floppy hat next to every sentence, 
eyeshaded against ideas and hearing and change. And I go outside on the sunniest days to stimulate photosynthetic poesies. Ah, sol-ar. Energy in the raw. Azucar for every spar in my lodge cabin tome.

I'd say another word is so; connected clauses semi-transparently elucidate so-called hyphenation. Solipsism is beautiful up to its point--the point where the snake's tail begins to tickle its throat. Ouroboricide is frowned upon by the cowers that be, unfit for dignified scriveners.

Bartleby and I are useless. But there's one difference between he and I: I'm willing to drink from my roots. Power and fame can lay waste and eat shame, I'll be askew, unshowered, and ready to disappear in place by wit or by twit.