Friends and enemies alike, i wait with bated breath for the outcome of my latest missive. A plea have i tossed, into the ring, for the sages — appointed by whom? — to peer down upon, through their thick bifocals and to Judge! Shall i be anointed Worthy? Has the Universe listened to the arguments presented by my patron goddess, Providence, the lover of fools and bards, and found that Yes! this fool Sascha of whom you speak in such adoring tones is deserving — although we know, friends, deserve ain’t got nothin to do with it — and as such, proclaimed:
“Indeed, I will deliver a mighty Bonk! upon his head and reality shall swoon around him and fall clutching at his tattered jeans. Where he treads, white flowers shall rush up out of the murky dark and sing to his passing heels! Where his gaze falls, the green moss shall multiply and wriggle itself ever larger and thicker upon the limbs of glowing trees! Whatsoever he touches, shall be living, breathing pulsing with the love that surges through the stars and Midas will consider himself a wee babe, for his touch brings a meek shine, a luster with no heartbeat.”
Pray for me friends, in these hours, as this fool waits and sighs. For Providence is a woman.
and although Cito fit, quod di volunt.
yet also Varium et mutabile semper femina