A Parody of Words

I have been taking comfort in words of late. I am glad my friends get an inkling of what I ramble about. But sobs, I have not experienced literary growth and thus I am thoroughly upset with self. My dearest Shao and andritz, I have got a confession to make. I am kinda baffled by you literary comments. And I believe it is of no fault of yours but mine, as I have chosen to let myself sink into the deepest of despair. I am baffled by the names of Beckette, Kaftka and Shaw. I have forgotten the literary greats in weeping and wrapping myself in this myopic cocoon. I deplore the work I do each day for they are nothing more than emptiness to me. I have ceased pursuing my dreams for a person so trite, yet who I hold so dear. I have forgotten tomorrow's past, and the dynasties that rise and fall.

I have thus gathered dust in the rickety brain of mine, and have been nothing but a fool. My grey matter has since degenerated into mush. And now, I spot this glaring conflict in my words. A rickety brain would not exist if it had turn into mush. Call the asylum someone, I need a shrink!

And yes, my title does not make sense.