Tried compiling a list of excuses intended to leave me blameless for the objectionable anemia of ^this^ piece. Far-fetched ones involving eyesight and invisible cloaks. Reasonable ones dealing with desert venues and the effects of sunbleaching. In the end, I was left only with the weighty evidence of Artistic Deficiency.
That being said, there are a few lessons to be learned. One being: "Pick up the Magenta every once in a while"--will do you good. Another: "Five more minutes spent on bricks is always well advised". And a third: "Never, ever spurn the services of a roadside crone." They may smell like last week's golumpki, but those witches routinely roll the supersecretdownfalls of all royalty into every dirty shirtsleeve, every crusty sock.
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