Solitary Rituals of Mourning the Write Way Right

Solitary rituals of mourning the write way, right? Papa... bless his (your) heart and soul, impossible mission your second born sole male heir cingularly communicates, viz his avocational crafted poem, since written words, mine metier write most pained words with great difficulty, I hesitantly, nonchalantly yet urgently call... deep within bosom of master scribe despite helpless tendency to bawl inconsolably, cuz... sob... honestly dad, I blink back unexpected tears instinctually sensing regarding... your final curtain call, methinks (rather strongly intimates), with unintended gall intuit, the final encore starring Boyce Brandon Harris staged by nemesis i.e. grim reaper well... since April 9th, 1929 feted birth celebrated amidst hall of mountain kings actually Aaron plus forefathers - the latter disembodied, ghosts of patriarchal, Judaic and genealogical lineage since.... beginning of reckoned time attired courtly getup couture, appropriate for respective eras whereby orthodox (just a hunch acquired after visiting Notre Dame) donned concomitant Jewish prayer shawl trumpeted rock solid faith shofar as I prevaricate, thus elaborate the above illusory scenario concocted, when gauzy troopers paid religious thrall to holy fathers espoused cultural preservation embedding droll commentaries regaling glorified past as well unbeknownst future naturally predicting their humble people's accomplishments modestly did extol such who ha (think hands splayed shoulder length apart palms upward), yes... of course millenniums after till celebrating prurience bajillion years after purported church lady playfully chided Adam and Eve Fall. Now fast forward approximately six months prior all across wide world yet tubby webbed oblate spheroid ball infamous October stock market crash yea, tis hard to imagine thee as newborn learning to crawl cuz now ye closely approach River of Styx shoal as thee life source satisfactorily completed four and score one year plus orbitz round the sun with nary a trace of, New Yawk drawl, tis mine grievance waged against divine creator allocating merely blink of eye tenure upon terra firma aware since birth, née since conception so little consciousness allotted to each mortal though phenomenal laudatory encompassing long haul characterizing life of smart Brooklyn boy manifold quantum (virtually augmented physical) leaps surpassing mine fumfering, dilly dallying, and ambling forays linked into proto Neanderthal descendent, who admirably succeeded driving his (mine) mother and father up the wall.