In which I stakeout again the I

No I have shackled me through censoring the senses and senseless stumbling through smithereens as synthesis I wonder of etymologies and subject myself and grope a myself subjectively a molesting unhindered by deprivation of experience of excitability. A stoicism I cut my hair some he guesses at a masculinity a declaration semblance of identity is a loss a surrender of anonymity. One fears nothing except being named  too truly a hiding of nomenclature though a necessity must be admitted but is there necessarily a consent. You are wrong identity as product is neither polish nor vomit. From whence a redundancy how neccessary then a discovery a conquering. When does the egosection begin a someone I would like to buy please a ticket.