Blank Doll eats an apple pie.

Apple pie ice-cream is delicious. I had a cup of it at the ice cream shop near my dad's salon so I should know.

The members of our distaff contemporaries are, I must fain admit, passing strange. It would appear as if all manner of logic or rationale pervade not their heads, as if a certain veil did shield their eyes so. Perhaps it is but a convenient gesture to fend off unwanted attendants but still, oh how it pierces the bosom. The pin-prick of affection may not touch that gentle skin beneath the veil foraslong as she would have it be so. How we then, linger upon every movement and gesture, cling onto every laughter and all for the simple reason that is never as simple, love.

Enough said. Don't you love it when I plunge into that sort of language? Too bad I can't handle archaic english or the sort of Hegelian dialetic that will have the passing uninitiated blinded and dazed. Truly, to be a neophyte of the literary order is not that simple a thing. Least of all when one seeks to puncture the membrane of time and lost languages that obscures our past.

But my words are sincere as they always are.

C'est tout.