Uncle Con, what leaded your text? How did conceit build your ships? Your sails were up and to the right. Your marketing language gave no one light. Your dear readers collected and moaned as poisonous metals descended their homes. Books on a shelf fruit for the mind, so you said and so it was for a time until a built up quill cup inked stained across the visible dictum. Blood is water with an extra step and you drank your share while our thirsty wept.