Evidently, due to an untitled usury - age-old, malformed and discontent (or the blur, the paper-fold, the diatribulation) - I have to start with a capital letter. Effort ... and all in sunlight, too. Bother to read me; bother to in-read me. I am not boo hoo, through subtle, with my sexuality destroyed at a stroke. Who will I survive this time? My actual name starts with a capital letter. I don't need your consigns and self-making. Upon my ego, I wear my boots. (That concept, that construement, that spectral conversion.) Your non-acceptance, your way of thinking, is not so much beyond them, as mommy tells. The art of seduction seems to be missing.
What shame awaits? How nice it would be.