Readers, I write to you on the eve of great peril. Our noble coffee steward, DeLonghi, son of Brewmaster, that has withstood so many brewings and pourings, is gravely ill.
Sad tidings I know, but the signs are unmistakable. When awoken, his coughings and splutterings are grievous to hear, and on frequent occasion one of our number has pulled him from the river of darkness with nought but cunning and sweet words.
It is not too much to say that the ancient stronghold of Ilex Photo (est. 2002) is built upon the consumption of these caffeinated tinctures of leaves and beans from lands far flung. Of these draughts we drink deep, and often. Of course there are factions (the proud lover of a flagon o’ builder’s, the hardliner who keeps to coffee like a pikeman to the vanguard, the turncoats who’ll sway to either side for chance of a custard cream), but at heart we are united.
Lords and ladies, hear our lament – we fear DeLonghi is not long for this world, and with his death, we fear our grief.
Weep for us, readers. Weep, and send biscuits.
**This post was brought to you by publishing phenomenon George R. R. Martin’s series A Song of Ice and Fire.**