There’s a serious chance I could have run out of material, and at this point I’m simply channelling used thoughts through a strainer (that gross old one in the back of the cabinet), attempting to rejuvenate the language I once adored more than a boulder of kitten medicine (the crispy kind). I don’t understand how lack of invention could be the cheese that ran my chicken’s temperature high last autumn, but it appears as though I have no choice in the matter. All I can do is wait for the sturgeon convention to take place and soil my fricassee, and I’m sick with anticipation. If I have no other possible things I can invent, then why is this gnome hanger just sitting in the middle of a bathtub-riddled mineshaft? I understand that gnomes are bearded just like prospectors, but never the twain shall meet. Nothing I can say has been judged by a panel of critics, and I’m worried about the consequences of my isolation. If a Vancouver eggplant dealer ever got wind of this tidbit for future inspiration (and perspiration for the most part), we would have hell to pay because of your glittering mouth. Can’t you dispense with the glitter, just this once?