Doubting Thomas luxuriates under Dylanesque milkweed

Doubting Thomas luxuriates under Dylanesque milkweed made fibrous threads...constituting heavy blanket (crocheted by the missus) on a cool Autumn like morning... to stave off experiencing getting chilblains, goosebumps, or subjected to the blast of cold air wafting thru the opened bedroom window on a frosty early August morning about a month before official start of Autumn. Quite refreshing the brisk temperatures courtesy a cold front that allows, enables, and provides a harbinger and foretaste when those hazy, hot, and humid, languid and torpid days of summer quickly forgotten as the lazy fox jumped over the brown dog the latter slumbering after weathering triple digit temperatures record breaking heat waves for the history books. Though generally prone to being tired subsequently driven to be a caffeine junkie unable to swing from trees like me monkey forebears, I get energized after an early afternoon siesta in tandem with the missus unwittingly actualizing, employing, implementing, and underwriting Sir Isaac Newton's first law of motion also known as the law of inertia, states that an object at rest will remain at rest, or if in motion, will remain in motion at a constant velocity unless acted upon by an external force. The above immovable status of one body, albeit human an ideal synopsis of yours truly all throughout his doggone life, especially when a student (at the School of Hard Knocks) remaining deaf, dumb and mute to the webbed wide world: if asked a question responding with my quintessential shoulder shrug, which characteristic inherited courtesy our youngest and second born daughter. Cold winter days seem closer on the horizon, when yours truly sequesters, and cloisters himself with bad company - not by personal choice - i.e. those pesky fruit flies riddling man cave within four walls of apartment unit b44 for seven long years of penal solitude (denuded of cell bate) unlike conventional Norwegian bachelor farmers living social during their Neptune salad days and a side apertif of powder milk biscuits. Ungroomed hair on head and face found my mother back in the day when I unfortunately lived under the same roof as an emerging adult with mother and father; she resorted to hashtagging me (her one and only prodigal son) as a member of the Ubangi tribe, the name of peoples who live in the Congo River basin to the west of Mossaka, while the Binga Pygmies and the Sanga scattered through the northern basin. Being demonized, humiliated, lambasted, psychologically like totally vilified et cetera (courtesy mommy dearest, who referred to me when a little boy as her monkey) kickstarted inferiority complex and a love of bananas. I ofttimes consider myself the missing link, a hypothetical extinct creature thought to be an intermediate form in the evolutionary line between modern humans and their ape-like ancestors scraping his knuckles along the ground as he ambles along the boulevard of broken dreams ejaculating primal grunts and groans essentially the mating call inevitably invoking ribald hyena like guffaws from uber hominids within the human jungle, who managed to lyft themselves by their bootstraps.