I’m afraid the only words I have right now are with my computer. When your passions turn to ones and zeros, florid speech, I fear, is the last thing on my mind. When I geek out, you see, I don’t go halfway. Oh, no! All the world around me must mirror the chaotic mass of thoughts writhing their way through me: a clean pile of clothes piled on top of shoes, an untouched mop sitting in the middle of a half-swept floor, these are ponderous delights of my cavernous little apartment! Perhaps I have some slavic blood coursing through my veins, for I’ve heard it said that in Russia, suffering is an art; and I think I understand the sublimity of such sentiment. Tell me a story by twilight to tame my foolish mind, snake charmer.