Essentially. Most of my waking hours are devoted to maintaining its more complicated rad subtleties.

[He grabs a tooling knife so he can etch Wiz's name into this collar. He is committing to this joke with the same care and devotion that he commits to everything: way too much.]

An aletheic quantity, Rose. The very concept of truth melts under the pressure of trying to reflect the veracity of the number of hats I inherited. Under that glaring brilliance, its wax wings have turned to nothing more than feather and a candle's ill-used remains. It perishes in the long fall, its splash unheard, unseen, by the ploughman on the hill above.