The only thing that could possibly allow Josh Henkin-brand whatevers to be valued commodities is their mystique. No matter how rare something is, meal people ne’er sacrifice the shroud of oblivion for a richer understanding. So permit me (or stop reading) to cheapen the sweltering molt of this cicada shrieking quelled and transmute into every day of the week. Radiant actuaries dog my footsteps, breading philological paradoxes with schizoaffective migraines and leg fumes. The sole way out is to fess up to a truth I’ll never be able to articulate:
So I examined the responses, and there were two primary camps of thought in the realm of Yargard with regard to my foetal stages of blogging: one of the manufacture and distribution of urban legends/hoaxes, while the other envisioned a bestiary of sorts. Naturally, I spliced them together with a diagonal lashing and called it a day. Then I decided it should be a cooking show because the two suggestions’ propinquity seemed to make it all too easy for me. This was merely a self-deceiving front, however, so that I could steal other people and call their ideas my home.
Thanks for bearing with. Questions are more than welcome, but any more writing than this would be self-indulgent, and I hope to contain that troublesome fault, just as our lovely forefathers (who started the Cold War to prevent our steel mills from becoming rusted, hulking, ersatz forests for deer and escaped narwhals and increasingly feral specimens of canis lupus familiaris, as internecine kudzu absconds with the copse of the formic foreman and his collection of abused Russian nesting dolls) dared to deport Domino “Theory” to the worldly politick mesa and squeeze an Ekpyrotic universe out of coiffed heresy, to the fraternal conclaves.
RE: signed,
Thanks “Prometheus” N.M. Sorry
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