Post.

One energy sapping, humid – in the southern hemisphere at least – February morning, the author awakes and decides to compose a post for the blog that he's created (a post which is essentially a brief story, although shorter than a traditional short story, clumsily contained within one long sentence (a sentence full of punctuation and embedded clauses that attempts to give it a flow but falls short of achieving that greatness of fluidity all good writing aspires to) in which plot, character, style, tone and theme are one and the same, leading to an unresolved tension between the author and the reader, alienating the purists – to whom the author is anyway ambivalent and therefore unconcerned by their tsk-tsking – and baffling the critics) so he sits at his keyboard and composes the words – words which combine to fulfill the brief he's given himself and which skip at uneven pace across the screen, just behind the flashing cursor, until their number seems about right; and then the post ends, somewhat unsatisfactorily it must be said, although allowing room for improvement which, if you contemplate more deeply than usual, is paradoxically a good thing, because if the unusual piece was perfection there would be no need to continue writing such tracts of text, as to emulate perfection once it has been achieved is just being greedy, for, as with time, even though perfection unto itself is infinite, there is only so much to go around each person.