The creative process

Just sautéing my organs internal - the reddish-purple spongers - copious marinades of wine with passable; the small only amount of rouge pleasure derived by I from partaking thereby of grape fermented thusly, and will no doubt premature malfunction to lead, the hot scorn of relatives, my close shame, and the kind of poor attendance funeral celebrity Z-failures would be embarrassed posthumously to exhume from tabloid retrospect of pages showbiz. Now away go off piste and stop pestering me you bozo homeless. I didn't need change sparing. I'm just roosting my lid eyes on this hereby officer bench park, till the hens to home rest a come and I don't like handed bracelets for two. Who you do I am think? I'm kind of man-girl that not.