I'd pay on printer ink, if that's what it takes, to see pictures of those windows framing the mountain-scape. Feel free to add to the album some of that nan's urn-decorated Christmas tree. That's my kind of humour. I'm sure it was your nan's too.

Actually let me take that back. You and I both know I can't afford printer ink. But I can play the piano while you dine. The exchange rate for playtime-to-ink is at an all-time, record-breaking "128 years to 1 milliliter." It's a financially logical decision that you accept my currency. I'm not the one saying it. These words are. And who knows where the hell did they come from.

But anyway. I'm weirdly hyped by your willingness. There's nothing more alluring than a disinfected line of menacing, surgical tools, hands tied up to the arms of a chair (if you're into that), a smirk of playful malice in your face, chest pumping anticipation. If your tools are as sharp as your pen, you'll cut through with ease—but that doesn't mean gentle force won't be required—encouraged even.