Of Beer and Beards, Or, Another Quotidian Missive

Our man received today his bi-weekly infusion of funds, given to him in exchange for his labor and a tiny but noticeable fraction of his psychic well-being, and, being the affiliate of drink that he is, promptly purchased himself twelve cans of Texan swill and twenty papered twists of fine Virginia tobacco. Several of these beers disappeared down our man's gullet in little time, for he is a thirsty youth, and one whose brain is most delighted by the play thereupon of alcohol and tobacco, surely two of the Lord's finest gifts to his sinful creation.

The youth, as some of his closest conspirators may know, has been contemplating growing his whiskers, in the hopes of achieving a beard to rival that of a grizzled Kentuckian or melancholic New England author from the days of yore. However, such facial hirsuteness strikes our man as unbecoming a man of as few years as he, despite his knowing that in the past a full beard was the true mark of a viable, virile male. Or, perhaps, his reluctance to pursue whisker-growth is a sign of his recognition that, age and experience aside, he does not feel aged enough to wear a beard decisively, and that postponing the complete abjuration of razor and strop is a wise decision for the time being. Ah, but how he longs for the day when he need not raise a hand to his jaw to stroke his whiskers in contemplation, but only need fold his hands over his breastbone and achieve that same outward sign of inward cogitation! "Time, good man, time," he says to himself.

Time! Our man is ever aware of that recursive beast, the shimmering lemniscate that most believe linear, but that the gnosis-minded among us know is a far more complex creature, Ourouboros-like in its maddening self-swallowing. It is this awareness that brings our man back to the icebox, where cold brews await him, and to the desk, where he seeks to pen words that will express a sliver of the many things that roil in his flaxen skull. He wishes all a good evening, and recommends that you investigate the newest additions to his work in progress, the Teutonically-titled Unheimlich, which is nigh twenty pages longer than the last time it was made public. Good night, mankind!