Sesquipedalian Sangfroid

My turbid, matutinal, sapid caffeinated elixir in hand, I lounge in dishabille in fugacious, postprandial perpension… What separates the numinous panjandrum from the hoi polloi? The recherché quasi-clerisy seems often distant from the moiling purblind masses, sitting in their hauteur, a farrago of demagogues, uttering sibylline imprecations at the slightest susurration of vacillation from the lumpen, ecclesiastical peasantry. Forced comity, abstersion of dubiety at any cost, immitigable afflatus, recondite tergiversation in response to any demurral from the unfortunate, inchoate autodidact; the tenebrous milieu of those immured in perfervid genuflection of a theological empyrean on earth; the spiritual, albeit panglossian, ne plus ultra of esoteric utopia.
This is no disquisition, merely the eldritch, mental peregrinations of a Philomath - an aspirant polymath - in a fainéant moment exposing a perduring quiddity; a renascent penchant for magniloquence. Yes, it’s true. I’m a sempiternal votary of pleonastic frisson! I asseverate the alimonious joys of sesquipedalian pastiche. However, feign would I cloy the appetite of the parsimonious wordsmith, driving him to ennui with my nugatory badinage. Farewell, hirsute and glabrous, bibulous and ascetic, orotund and laconic friends. Benisons be on you!