As in a work of fiction the likes of which might be told by Mr. Tolkien, when a mighty wizard, using secret and mysterious gestures and incantations to tap arcane powers, with a flash of peculiarly colored light, and a buzzing, zapping pop conjures from another dimension a fierce creature to stand before him in battle and do his bidding, so do I, calling upon the ancient dark powers of MicroSoft and with dizzying movements of my hands conjure these words together, formed of the atoms of the digital dimension beyond the ken of normal men, to stand before me to do my bidding by bringing to you through the aether my thoughts- to work one of the oldest magics, to create in your mind the images that are in mine.

Yeah, I know, it's a bit much isn't it? But, if you'd read the title above you might realize, that I am currently and inescapably transfixed, that is, anchored within the matrix of human endeavor like a primeval ant preserved for eons in the resins of an antedeluvian tree, in a condition that provides me with, if nothing else, plenty of time to sit around and think up crap like the stuff I wrote above.

Yup, I'm serving a week of jury duty.

In fact, as I type these words (as my fingers bend and snake, describing the wierd configurations that act as a conduit to the powers of- OK, enough of that stuff, back to the point) I am sitting in the Jury Assembly Room in the basement of the Madison County Courthouse in Edwardsville, Illinois.

I may not conclude this edition from the abovementioned location, for I am to report to the third floor at a time fifteen minutes hence. At which time I will learn my immediate fate. I will either be selected to actually serve on a jury, as I have been selected not to do three times now, or I will be, once again, allowed to return to this very room from which, if I do return, I will finish this message.

As you read my writing here, you may say "Judging from the dreck above, he should be able to write a whole book in fifteen minutes", but this is not the case. I just can't write fast. I am a compulsive continuous re-writer. As I type, I re-read and edit. I may get out two or three paragraphs at a stretch, but very soon after that I feel compelled to save my file as HTML and view it in a browser to check my grammar, diction, and spelling.

After a brief sojourn to the third floor, I am once again typing from the subterranean bowels of this edifice of what is commonly accepted by our society to be justice. And, it seems, I am also still struck with a superfluity of verbosity. Being so struck, and with little else to do but return to one or the other of the library books that have served me well this week, I will turn my powers now to a description of my experiences here so far which, I hope, will serve to bring some amusement to you (if on no other way, at least by the circumlocution with which, for some unfathomable reason, I feel compelled to relay it).

What? What is that I hear? I am released? Done?

I'll finish this later...