Lest you forget the font of all that is Pille

Myself, flatter and flickering yet virtually here

Pressing conundrums embedded in remote geographies have uninstalled me for a brief interim from full impress upon this thing-called-a-blog, yet I am, as always, present and presently accounted for, both hereabouts and all-hearing, a single apex-topping pyramidal eyeball laminated upon the throbbing panoptica of life--all-seeing and all-knowing and delimited only by the range of shoddily-written memos and array of inane (sh)emails passing across and sometimes--like overly energized atomica particula--even through my multi-ton mahogany roll-top; informing me of the moment-to-moment status of Wotan's Vast Multiversality. My most fervant wish is that (with the remaining unclouded and un-Masonic eye gazing on retirement and a good soak in a hot bath) my twin terrors of daughters--the commendable Penny and the unpredictable Patty--will someday be the Jachin and Boaz-like pillars supporting the manifold efforts of my personal brain-childe--the illustrious and Erde-renowned Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries! Until that august day unveils itself though, I shall, as always, be, in your eye, the dusty mote with the mostest, Antonio Pille, Professor De-Luxe of Mysteries and the Arcane, most humbly and recedingly.