In a stream of consciousness I typed:
I write likeHark! We all knew ye would fabricate the old stories, passed from heart to mind to mouth. Seems things are not preemptive anymore, as crows announce their own intentions during broad daylight, and horses whinny at the slightest of sights. Do we know anything in this vast empty spherical place of terrain and water? Are is this all our own cognizant playground. We must ask yourself if the lie is worthy of seeming truthful, or if life is not worthy of death. The clock ticks and will one day leave us behind. Nothing matters in the end of time.