In Ruins.

My friends.

Oh, if only I could tell you of my sorry tale of woe, but it is too long, and boring, and my zombie manservant GrGhaHHbnf (I keep him obedient with a steady diet of canned pet food and a cattle prod), indicates that a horde is headed this way.

Sufficit to say that I had greatness within reach, and lost it. I had almost attained that goal of true enlightenment, or as the prophets have called it: The Paws, that Refreshes. Revived after my brief period as one of the stinking undead, I fasted and hiked to the highest point in the city, and recited the chants of the Final Book of Fur.

But my faith was weak. I did not trust in The ferret Lord, and he saw the holes in my fervency, and gnawed holes in me.

And so, cast down in to the Pit, I ran amok as a sinner, fornicating and thinking vile thoughts and devouring sinful yoghurt delights. And for this I lost Hildegarde, and was abandoned by Sharko, and am alone. Well, aside from GrGhaHHbnf, but he is no conversationalist.

I will make up for my sins. I will repent. And I will spread the word. The End Times are due any minute.

Today's Proverb:"Kiss his furry Nose, and be uplifted, Such as a balloon is uplifted, and Bite not for ye shall be bitten" . ---Book of Sense Vol 4, 4:67