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Gossamer line slashing the surface of the stream with a hissing sound. Rod-tip arcing and moving insistently after the point of nylon contact, cork handgrip living in your trembling palm. The singing gears, the dancing patter of crashing spray, of yourself laughing amidst the sudden explosion. Ho! What a leap! He's running for the damn snag-keep-that-tip-up-my-GOD what a beauty! There, turned you, yabig brute! Easy now, easy Ha! Another run! Hellifya ain't a spunky bruiser, fella! But you're tiring, I can tell...come to Papa, come to the net...steady, steady...GOTCHA! You're hooked, dear reader, into my description of a caught fish! I know, I know...you're angry at my little game and feel more than a little bit betrayed. But wasn't it fun?
Let's go fishing again, for deeper, more intriguing prey. Let yourself be reeled in by the tale I'm spincasting, and we'll investigate what we've hooked together, at the end of the (end) line. After all, even though I'm the fisherman, I'm also the fare your feasting eyes consume. Eat my fantasies, then, in the hope that their consumption will be as much fun as their preparation (I assure you) is now/was then. I just love to run my pen. It's a champion sprinter in the paper chase, and just LOVES to talk about itself. It's a medium point Sanford Expresso felt tip, and the ink is black - it looks like this. . The paper is, more than likely, Champion pine paper pulp. This cheers me; nobler trees do not deserve the particular fate to which I am subjecting these sapling sheets.
All the Freudian puns in the preceding, I must admit, are purely intentional. I figured, with all the symbolism found in writing these days, that it was high time someone purposefully put some there. But again, if I *chose* to put it there, then it doesn't (according to the rules) bare the pale underbelly of my subconscious desires. Tricked again! For the Freudians among you, I've just revealed the Easter Egg co-ordinates. Of course this revelation reduces your id to tears, because it doesn't count if it isn't hidden. But it is - within your own psyche. Tag! You're it! It's hard to tag me back. I have good camouflage, and sport excellent cover. I could maroon you in a syntactical swamp of meaningless meanderings, bore you to pedantic tears (which blur your vision for the sucker punch), even curse you, you ass, and not get pummeled for it (at least not now/then). But instead, I'll reveal myself unto you (flash!). Hi! Here I am! Well, I WAS there, anyway. Trust me. Would I lie to you? Have you ever before beheld such honest expositionary features? (Ignore the smirk; it's merely parenthetical).
I'm back now. That's right -- I was gone for a full five minutes, and you didn't even notice. The absence of the invisible is difficult to detect. I don't know if you're there either, but I have my suspicions. You've followed me this far if you've read "You've followed me this far"; therefore you must still be tracking the ebon spoor of my trail.