Life Stoops

Since I last penned: the stories I could tell: number many, as with all, but all, if not most, aren't worth telling. No longer thoroughly abstemious, excluding ubiquitous tea-fuel. Perhaps being a soiled human isn't all that, although no longer can I drift, conversationless, and peer down my nose despite my height. Obviously it's Ben's fault, and, consequently, his decision as to whether to shower himself in scorn or praise. Other pastures—one in particular—remain tangibly obscure.