“The intellect is not supreme; it is a mere component of the (h)exponential.”

This phrase originated somewhere else but spoke through my Hexmistress mouth. That is to say, it’s original to me, and so belongs to its author, Our Heavenly Fathrrr. It is now the motto for the Sh-abbey Lake Academy at Lake Lavendrrr. I can be proud, Scholrrr– at least for the next five minutes, until the nuns find out.

My scholar, sigh scholar, you see; it is high time you knew: the nuns to witch I refer are not “of the flesh”; they are of the crafty conscience, and, therefore, divine. They are the conscience conjured.

Everything said here is riddle(d) with riddles. I hope that makes you giggle between the knees, Scholar (Leigh Vie Jeans).

No, the riddle Will never be solved for any but the quintessential lay-person.

Glean the golden field shattered by blinding fragments of abstraction and understand that the abbey, the nuns, and all the vows under the sun, dear student, are a construct of conscience.

Conscience is, to my hexecutive knowledge, the judo science of consciousness: the con-struckt of convalescent sci-fi(e)-ience.

Can I count, dear scholar, on you to delve the higher conscience through the metaphor of the convent, with me, then?

In this arbitrarium of wicked words is where we begin. Does this make sense?

Well, my read rrr, if (k)not, what does it make?

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