Jordan and I find ourselves in what was once a forest, framed by the charred corpses of organia. Before us looms our Oak erection which, yielding to precedent, is in acute decline. The Moirai schlep our porcine persons t'ward the wilted trunk, Atropos routinely glancing back over her shoulder with a wicked grin and making the "snip-snip" motion with her fingers. Her nails (predictably, on reflection) are a manicured, sultry red.

We don't know how we ended up here. There is the sense of an absence of a memory of a "why", but its inaudible squawks are stifled beneath a landslide of inattention and unpardonably byzantine prose. Camouflaged as we have been, concealed from the sweet, tempering sunshine of others' gaze, with naught but the Spooky Puppeteers and, inescapably, each other for company, we have succumbed to a climate of grotes ...