Bloomery.

I have found myself in the quagmire of ruminative discrepancy, the opulent diet of incessant debate, common amongst those who dare, to be chronically thoughtful. It is quite insufferable, but what are we, without the lucrative synthesis of pliant atoms, which must conduce the composition, of form and articulation. This miscible compound of iridescent divination, which is the acute mesmerism of melancholic art, need not be isolated from the sentient whole, from whence it is wrung by the dexterity of abstraction. Tonight I meditate with a weary mind, cursing the desultory pessimism of my parliament, and yet I cannot negate these unsophisticated conundrums, for in the end, all purposeful art, is the offspring of intrapersonal resilience. I shall once more surmount the floundering intrusion of disparate sentiments, and soar in convalescent ecdysis, with the hammer of Hephaestus, in my grasp. The solace of the smith, lies in his art, and its raw incarnation, quothes life unto his heart.