Consider the pure chaos that imbues our reality's fabric, its oil-slicked entropy coursing through the warp and the weft. Enveloped in such, our mind's eyes are exceedingly obscured. Thus, being humble and insignificant drops in the ?therial bucket, such as we are, it is not ours to say with such a finality that this machination shan't be trumped by a comelier form a scant five months hence (that is to say, the year's passing, yielding to the mewling babe which takes up the mantle of eternity from its aged shoulders.)
Nay, temporal we are, as the sum of our years distills into the moment we know to be the focal point of our consciousness. Truly, our realm of influence to impose opinion, desperately yearning to be fact, extends no further than the very breath that distends from our mortal bosom.
Let us then, dear friends and countrymen, in the midst of mine flailing attempt to bolster mine countenance with words both honeyed and flamboyantly extravagant, say instead that which canst be uttered by ones bound forevermore to a point of future's uncertainty: that the instrument pleases the eye, is manufacted of qualities sufficient for an implement of its stature, and that for all these clouded orbs might envision, this conveyance of colloquial communication stands champion among the pantheon of its brethren, at least this day.