Twenty minutes later, he let his eyelids split a quarter open and noticed a staircase going up to the third floor. This was the only house in the row that had an extra level, and the path had led him here. Of course, this had all been a massive cosmic troll job. Ben fully expected to walk up those stairs and find a giant papier-mâché middle finger waiting for him.

Dilettanteism presupposes art as botchwork does handicraft; and the Dilettante holds the same relation to the artist that the botcher does to the craftsman.

I'm pretty sure that he's not coming, but I can double check the guest list.

Them Frenchies worn't having no cabbage-head interfering in their affairs.