Mark Twain, in a note to the London office of the New York Herald

Think of it as a fault-line fantasy 
that gets dressed up in mauve and black 
and latches on to certain people– 
figures who excite debate, at least.

Mark had popularity going for him. 
He wrote like a champ and was a nice guy 
off the court as well. You could always count 
on an aerial view of the subject, 
whatever subject, and end up knowing 
more than you had before liftoff.

He'd fling open a door to the neat four-room 
treehouse of his heart and let you in, 
despite palpable risk to circulation, 
not to mention loss of privacy.

Still, it moved, and the orbit that everyone 
expected to be reading any day now 
kept on not appearing, it just wouldn't.

(Apparently I'm supposed to spell out 
the sequel, but, sorry, this topic has already 
terminated–no, seriously, I mean it.)