I feel like it's been months since last I sat down and wrote upon these ebony keys of my strange and fascinating life, but at the same time feel it was mere hours since I sat down and wrote upon these ebony keys of my strange and fascinating life and yet it has been days since I sat down and wrote upon these ebony keys of my strange and fascinating life. The words and the ebony and the keys and the life and the range and the st and the fascin and the ating of it all has clouded about my head like some kind of cloud and now I can't piece anything together, as though my strange and fascinating life is a Victorian street scene depicting rather a to do over a baker who's spilled his rolls as a rowdy dog bounds past being chased by a stream of young urchins, printed onto and expanse of wood and cut into curious shapes with some kind of motorised cutting tool I can't quite remember the name of.
The scene is then placed into a plastic bag and sealed. The bag is then placed into a cardboard box and sealed with two slithers of a clear plastic adhesive, sticky on one side but not the other. The box with the bag in it with the scene in it is then shipped out to toy shops and wayfaring merchants who tout it to children as a means of improving their hand eye coordination. However, children can often slip into a simple-minded haze and forget entirely that the small pieces of scene they are holding in their hands are of vital importance to the scene as a whole and they eat them and the scene can never be complete.
It winds up in charity shops bearing the slogan, "Some Peices Missing" and everybody cries because "pieces" is spelt wrong and the scene can never be completed. Somebody buys it anyway, thinking it will be okay but they wind up completely, utterly, heartbreakingly disappointed when they invest hours of free time building the scene piece by piece only to find that the scene can never be completed.