Sinners at the St. Regis
I am now staring downward at an insurmountable difficulty; the bane of writers henceforth the first etching of the commandments by Moses himself. Challenges arise out of necessity, but the current task we are concerned with, is so cavernously soaked in arduousness, to the end that you could discover even Achilles himself would probably convulse at the knees from its minatory visage. In Fact, in the most fit of cases, Achilles would buckle uncontrollably at the knees like a Parkinson patient, especially if he had his own Cerberus of a life experience tucked away, fondly stewing and boiling and gesticulating in his bosom, like I do. This is no ordinary foe, no, this foe is hidden in plain sight. I cannot touch him, nor control him either! I cannot sway him, convince him, negotiate with him, bargain, plea, or engage in any discourse or conjecture of any kind! If my adversary only required brute force to be dealt with, then he'd be an easy foe indeed. But no, this hostile force was a f...