On Being the Inverted Proportion of Our Eloquence to What It Is We Talk About, Which Is Very Little Indeed

And without the bitter and oft-denied heartache, it's just another journalistic truth, with hardly a published word to your credit, a false menace, even lighter than the little it's built on, and that's the only reason it won't collapse, at least not of its own accord. But while we're at it, we might as well cut our swath as wide as it is shallow, and let the rest sort out what it may mean, if it means anything at all. We'll be in good company in doing so, I promise.

Drinks?