Tyler

The Mathemagician from The Phantom Tollbooth has been real quiet since this dropped

Ale-stuporous, autoerotique Efflorescence.

Gothickally depressive and Westeringly manic, maniatropick Detectors a-jangle.

Blinking in Exhaustion by now chronick, bursting into tears inconsolable.

Encyclopedistick, perhaps even Masonick.

Never mind when,— shall it end?

The film adaptation would be much improved if Harrison Ford wore a lead codpiece

An enervated wreck at 18, I was casting about for an answer to sorry convictions and an assurance of boyish entitlements when I should have been reading this. I’m not ashamed, and neither should you be. I’m often asking myself where Le Guin has been all my life

The haters just feeling crabby