A Few Words on the Ever Elusive Seyontallee.

The Seyontallee, which is burnished, and the color of a gulfen flask, admits of no person's idle speculation. But when it comes to overage, we're all m-pits and Oxford rainwear. I keep my personal standards perpetually adjusted in case of explosions which go unexplained. The compact gray tube remains a favorite when our lids require a silly peckering. In yet another case of mistaken wordage, we find that a community under siege puts up one hell of a fight when their ethics go unquestioned into that good night. But over and above any person's feeling of inceptive extrusion, we like to promise that any hill to die on is one worth fighting against if a common beast lacks even the smallest tumor. By miles, you say? Don't.

If all goes 'whiff', and the truechord shuffle is recorded for the grandkids, then I'll consider my work all but complete. The way they look through the final cracks would take your breath in a novel direction. The common fault with our sense of being is what blocks a successful enactment of stealth in our partner's vacant former room. They love to wheel around without complaint, until one day a question needs asking and a certain someone is buttonholed on his way out of an intrusive door-cam. Think what you will, but if any of your stuff ends up in a garage down the street, then you will have richly earned the promotion for which you almost came undone on the inside. I'd bet my life on it.

But now, if we observe extra closely, the Seyontallee betrays the tiniest loam of moisture and each of our miniaturized bodies seems newly appropriate during an evening of traditional mist. I've bantered with the worst of them and still it comes-a-cropper. Now when I chainmail an embossed dishrag to one of the phlebotic Sultans of a, quite frankly, innocuous 'stan', I can groan in my soup but still not utter the secret word that will render us safe from incipient conflagration. I dread meeting the reigning Queen of Sherpas even though I admire the trust she wields throughout the dogmire. It will help us if we pester a League official on his very own letterhead. Only then will we get back in tune with the more obvious facts which leave us heckless but with superb prizes. Is that you, Chip?

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