No Comma

Perhaps possibly even odds are that drinking almost, but not quite, exactly nothing like half way not stoned is not a good idea. With some expedited instruction and reservation of indirect nature I can redirect habits leading to the ramble of perhaps a little too few commas and perhaps even remotely probably too much wine running the digits that reside on idle hands.

Without heart and soiled sullen soul and still without commas and residing silence in phrases set forth upon run ons to all hell and back through pearly gates of unchecked meta-discourse running through and in and over the sea of somewhat circuitous prose still not involving commas if it can at all be helped can I still dissuade the casual reader from putting up with this meandering washing and swashing breaking wave of semi lucid dream running type?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Brevity is the key. Brevity.

Simple declarations tell truth. Of what purpose are questions. To find truth in declaration. They exist for that purpose. No other. They do not flow. They do not run. They stand. They are. They will.

If I were to buy cabin making materials and live on a pond, thoroughly ensconced in old world, formal, all together unintelligibly intelligent, though running at time at length not acceptable, short of the occasional blurb of pondside ecological matter, I would buy those materials, all of them practical and of quality suitable but not over providing, from a poor Irish family, and there is rarely another type, who would provide me fuel, precious and reassuring, of my own stereotypes.

Comma splices are prevalent and always lurking, waiting for your inspiration, your thought. They rest on the tip of your pinky, tempting and illegal. Like that early 18th summer of mine, i was still young. When I found that girl attractive, fifteen.

Should this wine run itself out? I think not.