I do not concern myself with cataloging the "proper" or "correct" way to file away thoughts. I am no mental custodian, busied not with the content of dreams but rather where to find them within the vast collection of human utterance. Rather, I am a free thinker, by which I mean I think and speak without care to the proper way. For what is the proper way, but what one decided many generations ago was the proper way. Where is it written in the stars that my way is not the proper way? Where in our holy books does it say to organize by surname? Two men can to a fork in the road, and you, Sam, you asked permission to even make a choice while I bounded ahead blindly. Lo, I have encountered problems many. Embarrassing punctuation mishaps, ill-formed sentences, why this very email contains no less than 15 "errors," if you choose to call them that. But at least I dare to dream! Of faster than light travel, of a pill that makes you skinny but doesn't give you heart attacks, of cigarettes that contain no tar and of free-form grammar. While you, Sam, you dream of getting the good-boy award for following the rules. Of being lauded and singled out for pointing at the shortcomings of others and declaring, "I, Sam Reich, have discovered an error!" Of being the smugliest man I know. And yet, though you embarrass me in front of our colleagues, I cannot help but respect your iron grip on the rules. Your encyclopaedic knowledge of the proper way. I am but a barbarian and you a learned Roman, though we all know how that ended. There will be a day my hordes breach your sturdy walls and swarm over your people like so many ants on a discarded candy bar. And as we set torch to your temples, take your women and ransack your treasury, look upon me from atop the Palatine Hill as you flee and watch me laugh in the flickering light of your life's work burning. For the rules, Sam, are meant to be broken.