Oxygen Rich Obnoxious

Have you ever been hounded by a whatsit, when walking home at
oh dark thirty, (of course there's no moon, and it's 26 miles plus, but that's okay, because you'll sleep the last 0.2 standing up, and now it's time for school) and it bounds across your scent behind you so fast, that you just do see its blur on your turning? Oh again and never mind, writing is hard and cognition a re re wish for dead ideals and ists and better pretty bows for babies with baba's and no isms; thoughts are winged dipped and mostly fried, for eating, words a pistol, that sprays a lot but mostly misses. It was just about the fact that it all goes by too fast and slow to see at the same time, and numbers and even variables for letters can't see it either, for the tail of a cat blocking their view of what really is; as if you'd know what to do with it, if you got it, boy. The la lack of sense is the only hope for hope, emotional science and clinical religion, only want thy tithes and partisans. Now, have you ever heard the howls of the wild dog pack?