Today, I informed our precocious Promethean that he is a reanimated jigsaw puzzle of a man.  I’d hoped he’d be more mature about the whole thing.  Questions like, “Where did I come from” are existential concerns.  I suppose I should have been feeding him on a steady diet of those philosophers, although there’s not yet been a Sartre coloring book.  (It would come with a single, white crayon.)

I’d be rather flattered to have been created in such a manner, but Adam chooses to pout.  I believe his unsavory fascination with Carolyn Stoddard (photos enclosed, sorry they’re from such a distance) is the root.

Shall I be a professor of the occult, manhood, or love?  The answer, as you gents well know, is all of the above!


T. Eliot Stolomonic


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