Acknowledge. Gimme the Verbaluce, and make it snappy.
So I can like, freestyle re my sentences and thoughts, in elevated diction, my well-articulated thoughts recorded here for future analysis, both yours, dear imagined and projected reader, and mine, when in my waning years of sanity I pore over these blog entries from this, the year I am (was) 42, thoughts of, approximately: how George Saunders reveals through his creations the extent to which we are all responsible. He places within our reach mental images of worlds we have never inhabited (a yard bereft of glee in which our father projects himself onto a pole; a prison in which we, the bad guys, forced into decisions via mind-altering drugs, yet find the will to resist; TorchLightNight in the Grove of Sorrow; above/beneath the surface of a Switzerlandish pond) and when we enter them we sense the odd rightness and wrongnesses of our own worlds.
Until we reach the end of the story.
Until something in the drip begins to wane. Until we get another one.
Might I be addicted to his stories?
What's in it?
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.