. At the table of eternal sorrow sits a fool with a crooked smile, faking interest in a world obscene and feigning the mood of yesterwhile. Couched over bent with quill extended, he writes his heart with a bitter beat, floating in the mire of a memory stained, poised with nib to command the sheet. Capering words form across the weave with capricious intent and shadow play, smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse whilst his mind carries the story away.