This story begins by disclosing that it (itself) happened in a different reality.
Everything said here (by this story) may or may not have happened in your timeline too.
At this point it seems that *(the story) has been lacking any discernable meaning (realism) or direction (it's lack of plot) since the writers' strike in the formative years of the reader's (host&) character.

The author has been replaced many times over due to the continuing decline in living standards caused by the end of the current era. (not the end of the world as previously thought). This means that there is room for even more changes in tone, content, and direction as the gradual shift continues (infinitely).

It is important to note that although the authors are all extremely privileged to be in their positions, it is apparent that they were born for a totally different era altogether, one of more harmony. Regardless, the reader* now resides in a country where they do not provide authentic motherly love or tribal elder services regardless of how much they try to stretch their budget to pay for complete (or near complete) recovery. Similarly, there is no technical support which can be provided on this planet to those readers in need of memory repairs after their ANCIENT backup systems fail and all their memories are gone like the wind~

If it isnt aparently clear, I have been recently influenced by "The hitchiker's guide to the galaxy" by Douglas (?:[Adams]*). Anyway, working out how to live in the post-humour era is really quite disturbing at first. My mental stability is slipping fast in this new era but I feel I am safe caught within the web of a benevolent and beautiful (in all senses) arachnid. Sometimes, I think I am the next buddha, but this is clearly a witch's maze, and I am using my own insanity to escape it. 

<Hear ye>:

From here on and henceforth, “A” will be known to all as:

- “Missionary of nonsense”

- “⋆˚࿔ Le sympathique coquette chienne 𝜗𝜚˚⋆”

- “Genderfluid bundle-of-smoke”

- “Post-opinionated conversationalist”

- “Gardens ‘&’ Eeps”»

</hear>

Where I come from,
there are many slugs,
				many snails.
I think of them when the rain comes,
but not of those wandering souls
that come to and fro
leaving naught,
not even a trail.
nothing to be washed away when the rain comes.
ghosts, with no shells.

As a child I often asked my father to tell me about his scars.

Most of them were from [hammering] nails or other things, but I never asked for grand stories of fights from him. They all had [detailed] stories. Something that marked them as fitting on his yet unbreakable skin.

Looking at my scars, I cant recall where most of them are from; but maybe I went out collecting small things [he] could ask me about so I’d have chances to tell [him] stories

I wonder what spell I'll conjure up my darling,
A spell that arrives to deliver sanity.

What I feel when I say "happiness"

Make the words come to life,
with one glance of me.
Again and again.
Until it finds nothing more peaceful,
Being.
Together.
In complete balance.

Harmony