As it is presumed, and predicted with spareless accuracy,during this few months labour lacks libido whence scrawl and scribble is concerned. In contrast to others, who have been in a constant deliverance, and of the quality of it, this particular has been in blastful, yet admittedly blissful, neglet. It is hopeful, for permissive's sake, and only for such, for this author could find not reason, nor a speck of character, in his dark and colluded soul to write, or, on a personal space, to have a life. As time begets time, till time itself is questioned, the crux of this blog's existence has been wholefully absent. Posting's past has remained posting present. Of consequence is the patron's health, and the vibrancy of it. Analogious is of it with the poisoning implied by the eating of a cow's dung. Or of Subaidah's. Such pain will be emphatised, with a smite of compassion, and to be smitten, by a conscience so heavy,by a majority of society, of which this author does not fall. However, with due justice, this particular blogger has been of recent days reading, about a book with a unique prose, a unique presentation, and a unique headache, hence the quirky yet unsrutably annoying composition and theliberality with the coma in this current post, of a particlar author, of a particular time, and of not contemporary space. Jame Austen. So beg me mercy.