*A recurring series chronicling the ongoing detailing of events, moods, textures and emotions.
A gentleman, who likely during the day was wearing tweed, has now returned home, slipping into something more comfortable - his leisure suit and robe. He sits on his armchair, fire roaring in the background, scotch in hand, pipe in mouth, pouring over various volumes of text. Is it Chaucer? A newly discovered Shakespearean text? Or perhaps Plato's Republic? All of these things are possibilities.
Ah, why yes, hello! I didn't see you over there. Allow me to introduce myself - my name is Hubert Edgecombe Phillips, and I am a sort of cataloger of catalogs, a sort of Ulysses S. Grant of reality, if you will. Really, my friend, when you think of it, reality is merely a compilation of various categories with specific instances of these categories listed within. The most impossible thing to do is rid oneself of these categories. When that happens, you're experiencing pure existence, which to some is terrifying and to others pleasant.
Join us next time, when Hubert Edgecombe Phillips taps into pure existence.
