Gravitas can have a certain levity. One discovers an old manuscript in an older box and wonders what to do with it. Poets of course abound, and no doubt too many of them have been unbound. There's not much I can say about these sequences of excusable proximities to juvenilia, but the beauty of the randomness of extended blah blah blahs is that occasionally there is a phrase or two which accidentally jars loose the bonds in the brain which keep us from truly breathing while we are still breathing. There might be one or two such lines contained within.