Do you find it anxiety-inducing when you are reading something, and suddenly find that you are in the middle of an elaborate run-on sentence, that, due to the nature of its organizational structure, begins to suggest a constantly-looming-but-never-arriving closure, at least at that particular moment, because you are internally expecting the end of the phrasing, but taunted at every turn by the sentence itself, and just wish the fucking sentence (which, at a crucial moment, dips into self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness parentheticals, each giving rise to a new sense of unease [due to the Inception-like layering of parentheticals-within-parentheticals] that never fully fades, because surely the sentence must resolve at some point*, SURELY IT MUST**, but while inside of it, it is like having a hangnail on your thumb, dangling and ruining your day, because what kind of sadistic maniac would linguistically set you up earlier to read a sentence that goes on and on, making the implicit writer's promise that it will end, because all sentences end) would just fucking end already?
*And even has the audacity to include FOOTNOTES (what is this, a law journal?), which, thanks to writers like Nicholson Baker and David Foster Wallace (who for all intents and purposes modernized the footnote by stylizing and reifying it into its own world of micro-literature [a discursive leap even further away from the original sentence that goes beyond masturbatory]—if you are unfamiliar, take a moment to casually peruse the following: https://www.pdfdrive.com/infinite-jest-e40068379.html and screech “ai yi yi” to yourself: that book is the ultimate in wanking it), can turn this feeling into a low-grade panic that, even if the footnoted sentence were to mercifully conclude, would STILL NOT fully satisfy, because you are still mentally invested in the main sentence, and besides, footnotes AREN'T EVEN REQUIRED to end in a period, so now you are:
(a) living in the substrata of a footnote, God it would be embarrassing to lose track of the thread now, and
(b) angrily skimming through the rest of the Goddamn footnote so that you can get back to the original sentence, only half-registering what you are reading, but at that moment, the sentence takes a dip into a literary lyricism, a respite bubble of air, the beat before the yogi-dictated exhale, a brief oasis in an otherwise purely diagrammatic offering
**And returning to the original sentence after such a lengthy journey away is almost discombobulating: where were you, how did you get there, should you backtrack to recalibrate or just get the sandwich you were thinking of getting when you began the sentence