All your faithfulls are on the edge of whatever they sit or lay on or balance tediously on when we read your works waiting for YOU to publish another book with the starting line being, "Sike. I'm alive! Scared you didn't I?" Except you don't say sike but it would be to that affect and then make some impossible analogy how some horrendus catastrophe, like Jesus coming to where he forsake (earth) and blable on about whatever Heaven has been up to for the past 9.45 bagillion years (because earthlings don't know how to keep track of time as good as Heaven) and gobble up all his brain washed works of art leaving everything else up to stupor, would have to happen before you die.
We wait, suspended in trembling suspense.
Please, hurry. Rise up.
