Zen Cynic

Seventeen syllables. Nothing is sacred.

I have spent decades honing dry clinical prose–stripped of all ambiguity, art, and life. I have penned volumes that could bore all but the most intrepid readers to death.

Mea Culpa

Now I distill meaning into seventeen syllables–where clarity meets absurdity, and beauty collides with human folly.

But enough about me. Let my words carry their own weight.

Enjoy. Read carefully, my friends.