Which is it, Reginald? My old sob story perfected in allegory or perhaps a turgid tale of ruffian magic propped up with Bubonic rhetoric of certain damnation and an unlikely salvation? Well, it beats the sheets of my memory, Lord, Baron, but I seem to recall you’ve recording nothing at all and something is better than scant left of zero. So be a hero and pick up that quill dobbed propper and let’s see if you can remember how to spell, put sentences together and finish a project. Only then shall we venture its value.

Blighted I lowered beak, furled brow and with hawkish set to my acidic rebuke I lasered the poor chap into the afterlife with my best laid stare. “That’ll learn ya”, to quote my Kentucky faithful. The nerve of some lads who never had a raven’s idea of the power and predicate in well shaped prose of fanciful thinking. While off blinking at the sun’s brilliance they think themselves professors of light, knowing not of wave, packet or plasma. Seems more likely to venture a heliotrope’s vermillion envy then to expect revelation from ignorance.

With that the point needed addressing. What is the desired or expected outcome when some have no concept and many have reflected for days on end about nothing? What thoughts drift into this realm when no power has been engaged to thinking? Shall problems delight in their ability for self-service and wars be won simply by employing the daft wisdom of laziness and folly, having dreamt from nothing, about something without any form or fashion made of vacuum and night?

The ponder is the chase. The thinking the long slow wade into the pool of idea, as gator drops deeply into nether end finding the near slumber fancy of drifting bubbles the origin of well formed principle. What thoughts buffet me in the waves as I swish my tail to disturb mud disguising my presence from prey? I first remember the comfortable taste of butter then slowly allow vision to form the slow roaster pheasant and fresh baked bread it will be mercifully poured over. Those are the gleeful, well minded footprints of a man who knows his way to the birthplace of ideal. Savoring the gravy, well dollaped I soak my mindful biscuits marmalade and travel abroad in the ruddy nations of mental topography seeking sands, lakes and mountain born of imagination.

My aid forgotten blue skies of eagle and sparrow welcome my fresh laundered trouser of linen and shirt’s cotton. I tip the brim of my summer’s shade to welcome buzzing bee and prowling lion as the range takes shape and the heat of mid day bring perspiration tumbling its way down each temple. I rest into the carriages green leather seats minding my knickknacks there is nothing to puncture the leisure of my serene pleasure in viewing the splendiferous production of the mind’s eye. I am one with surrounding not mantra but in resemblance and practiced wizardry of Quill’s fodder. Pursuant to emancipation from the weighty organization of mental baggage my eyes seek the repository, the foundation for tales origination. What valley, what city or barrack pristine shall center focus of words meant to capture but this glorious peak in crystalline sky? Yes it shall be upon the mountain this story unfolds for in its majesty is held possibility, promise and arduous trail worthy of remembering.