Neil Gaiman’s Immortality

All sorts of ill has befallen our household. Wreckage from the evolution of maturing lives is cluttering the landscape, and all of our growing pains are full upon us. We will not perish of our ills. There is a light that indicates the coming of a new day, but we are yet in the cold and dark and curse the shadows that mock us.

However. The percussive force of a rapidly decompressing cat will have us washing blood and fur from the paneling for weeks.

I have a complete manuscript. It is in revision.


I fully intended to call several of you with this happy news, but I am, frankly, too fucking tired. And there is champagne. So I owe you.

I go now, to challenge the wine to a contest of effervescence. Bet I win.

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry