Faulkner, on the other hand, would have seen the prose of Icedragon and rent his clothes at the thought of so many words wasted through want of use, as though they might atrophy while waiting in the dictionary of the mind, waiting unsummoned, in a purgatory of endless verbiage, forgotten and neglected while brevity doffs his victor's cap and scans the field of battle for the scattered remnants of verbosity, which have taken their leave to nurse their wounds and live to fight another day.
My mother is a fish.