Dear Mister Faulkner:

Last night, as I waded like a warrior through four-and-a-half feet of snow (so, that’s eye level for me) that has recently subjugated the area of Virginia where my mother keeps her farm and vegetable garden and, more importantly, the barn in which (generations of southern belles were “Known,” upon hay stacks) our two pigs Queenie and Auntie lived until they were put to death by the blow-gun bearing veterinarian, and also, incidentally, where I write this letter—being as I am in Virginia for the purpose of paying approximately 10 overdue parking tickets (I’m innocent though, honest!), I stumbled across something which I believe to be of great personal interest to you all; that which you have searched for as the whole world prayed that you would find it, and the absence of which has tripped up not only your average Attention Deficianado, but the staunchest of scholars, too, who were left humbled and miserable by their inability to get to the end (stay with me now, Brothers and Sisters!)—a failing by no means of their own intelligence—studies have shown: Most readers struggle when faced with sentences containing an excess of 31 words (personally, I struggle with all prime numbers); often these inflated phrases are made additionally puzzling by their apparent contempt of grammatical traditions, their overtly challenging incorporation of far too many ridiculous names, as well as the stealthy insinuation of non-sequiturs into what may initially announce itself as a rather focused line of thought, so that the reader is unprepared for the introduction of a new tangent, just like that surprisingly grisly scene with the wild hogs at the end of Old Yeller; however, one generally allows a certain amount of liberty to these creative types—we allow the talented their run-ons just as we allow them their naughty sexual proclivities (Joyce, I’m looking at you) because we assume that it was all done knowingly and in the pursuit of artistic enlightenment; on the off chance, however, that the reason behind the wordiness has less to do with style and more to do with absentmindedness or poor eyesight, I thought that I would share with you what I found last night while roaming the Virginia countryside, in the hope that it will bring you closure to be reunited with that O so magnificent, or so elusive.

Yours hypothetically,

Rory Squire