Welcome, dear reader. Once again it is I, Parciloquy the Peculiar and the Purple, judging by the fashion choices made by my faithful manservant Lancelot Squib, whose fingers even now tap away upon this laptop. Such as delightful device, much better than the tuning rods and crystals of which I am more accustomed to in my own devices.
To: Arturo the Clock-Maker, Christian Rosencreutz, Baldar the Vargouile Slayer, et al.
My dearest friends and colleagues, balm to my copper-plated heart, it is with such joy and pleasance that I write to you today. I but bask in the glory that is your attention, which shines like the golden second sun of Arcturias floating betwixt the twin peaks of the Alablavendar Mountains.
You, who shine like the blood moon at the height of its perihelion on the vampire world of Sangria Muerte, I fear I must relate to you, in the feebleness that is my lot when compared to the glory of my fellow wizardly colleagues such as yourself, that I have recent cause for a great deal of woe and distress.
No doubt you, whose intellect and wisdom shine brighter than all the stars in the Blue Hydra constellation, have by now deduced my dissimulation. Having written the words of the Trichromatic Obeisance, I feel I may dispense with the platitudes and write more plainly. Or, as the planar aborigines of this version of Earth say: “Let’s cut the shit”.
If you know one thing about me, it is that I am incorrigibly lazy. Truly, I daresay all great wizards are. After all, what but the most extreme and perverse forms of laziness would drive a body to magic in the first place?
Indeed, though I am a lazy old man I do still have my little hobbies that keep me busy even when I have determined to do a great deal of nothing. As with my magical vocation, these projects are largely concerned with enabling my inborn laziness.