Look at a lifetime of work and boil it down to 36 CMYK pages. Six months later and our project has reached completion and we sit at the round table downing shots of El Tesoro Anejo. A traditional toast to a job well done, though R cannot extract himself from a sudden hyper-enthusiasm which compels him to suggest a million and one last minute revisions. K pours another round while R hastily scrawls alternate phrases and questions onto blue Post-its and affixes them to the--what-we-thought-were finalized--sheets. "This sentence makes no sense"; "Is it 'Word Horde' or 'Word Hoard'?"; "1962 or '61?" It's hard to blame him for his mania as we are all a bit nervous about letting a colossal, embarassing blunder slip through (this morning I found I had spelled Kurt Schwitters--Kurt Schitters. ugh.) But the liquor seems to help put apprehension to rest, and we are all grinning broadly while passing around the colorful sheets. Oddly enough, getting drunk at work today marks a high point, and one wonders if what lies ahead are even higher peaks, or calamitous depths, or just the same boring plain you already know as far as the eye can see. It is no wonder, however, and in fact very plain to see, the near future is all about renewed passports and a long, long vacation.