Writer Insert 2 - The Flurry Style

For nearly a life time I have followed the strict architectural designs of grammar and writing etiquette. I have used and manipulated words on a level not many can comprehend. Then as a request to a dying friend I tossed it into the bin.
She begged me to “let it out” and to release what was inside. Was she a muse? Only here long enough to shred my heart and leave me with a desire to write again?
Picture this for a moment and see why my psychobabble is so entertaining. There is a city of offices and in each of them very strict engineers of literature, both pulp and creative works. Then one day one worker sitting next to a window peers out. He looks at the mountain through the rain. He follows its curves and scars and up past the clouds. There on the top of the mountain, standing totally naked, is me shouting, “I say Fie on the. Who would say to me? That what I write is literarily unsatisfactory. For I would rather die, then comply, with their fucking goddamn useless designs.”
The worker gets the attention of another sitting beside him and he too looks up the mountain and then at me, “hell hung.”
The first worker shakes his head and looks around. For the first time in his life he wished he did not have the blond wife and the 2.2 kids with the car payments and mortgage. He longed for a cave and an animal skin for clothes. He looked around for a club and grabbed a coat rack and began beating fellow workers. “Ugg. Ugg.” He screams as he destroys everything and everyone, while I stand and feel the breeze between my knees.
Now it was my intention to clarify my flurry style but it’s no more than me letting what’s inside me come out and not worry about tempo or structure. I have no intention on anything other than a release and a stab or two.