This One Time, He Wrote A Book.

This one time, he wrote a book. He hoarded all his finest phrases. He even coined a few. Every one was used in his book. He wrote a book of indeterminate length, as length is hardly a measure of a book's worth and the worth of his book was as yet undetermined. He wrote the whole thing. The book. Alone. Maybe at a typewriter. And The Book made for stellar conversation. He would let you read it, but he'd need a couple of days.

To get things in order or whatnot.