As I am sitting in the Kolding Caffe, sipping my Guinness, and puffing at my cigar, a Latin proverb comes to my mind out of the blue: Verba volant, scripta manent. Of course, I am wondering about the uncertain future of my magnum opus. But then I search for the proverb in my Residua on the World Wide Web, and I quickly discover something penned nearly fifteen years ago that contradicts my present thoughts (“Verba manent,” July 30, 1998). You have to be Alexander the Great for this saying of mine to be true, though. One way or another, my writings will forever remain my best bet. Of course, I quickly get annoyed with my idle ruminations. Who cares about the future? What future, anyway? The best I can do under the circumstances is to report my moment of weakness. Would that it were the only one, or at least less frequent. Scripta manent, my ass.