Your ideas may seem significant in terms of, what do you call it?, evolution, but they are, in fact, thematically inconsistent with same. And listen ... you're not keeping me contrite in any meaningful way. I'm folding all on my own - as a pithy, heartfelt desire. Stylistically, you're just like the rest of your oeuvre: previously mismanaged, an avoider. I'm so clear, in contrast. See how clear ... nuclear! Even if you construe to defy categorisation, nothing you offer will adhere to those generalised structures. Meanwhile, I'm becoming synonymous with my own preoccupations; and, amongst the outsiders, I am seen as a depictor of misadventure. No, William Blake was no accountant, you moron! I can't travel like that any longer. Someone has to tell you. The only real decay is industrial. You're such a towny. So blind. Heidegger's spectacles. Sickening. Getting worse, too. Machines might make all the promises, but there are no greater prospects in that kind of physical confrontation. You're fooling nobody with that kind of prostitution.