It's an absolutely packed Ferg’s Focus.

I wrote an essay that’s been bubbling for a while. French playwrights are slandering cowards (I thought it was ironic, too). We’ve got thieves dropping in from rooftops in Buenos Aires like it was the 1001st Arabian night. There exists a game like rugby only played on horses.

No flowery intros this time—let’s get into it.

Much like my routine I describe in this edition (or rather lack thereof), my appetite for writing will disappear for weeks and then resurge in full at a moment’s notice.

I don’t believe in creativity striking. The best writers are the ones capable of sitting down without fail day over day until something slightly better than dribble hits the page.

Likewise, I doubt any of those illustrious writers has ever turned down the rare blessing that is… when inspiration strikes.

Today was one of those lucky days.