As I'm out, in our region's civic centers, and pedestrian districts, [or at home, nestling in, for a content publish push and post, on the Internet], in between newsfeed intake, social media rapport and upkeep, and checkin' my face - today, I had sooo embarrassing boogers in my nose, which I discovered after talking to people; and I have to live this life out somehow, still - I play little iPigeon games, as an aside.
These iPigeon games are cute, darling, and endearing standing attestments to what's commonly otherwise referred to, ‹ in our upbringing › [or, in the former generation], as attending to the figurative context of the "inner child." Everybody can relate to the inner child, I'd say. As we grow and adapt in to adulting, we're, in intervals, fraught with abuse of what's otherwise "not know|in'| well enough, to twang it into context, whereas, as iPigeons-officinalus, of appropriate husbandry and heritage of heraldry, we're brought up as our best-selves, that we [rather, as underlings], are lacking of, given that our ‹ inner-child › had been inured:
