It is not often that I let an author climb into my skull with a large wrench and a vat of acid without scrutinizing their intentions first. Most authors would simply take an area of my brain that I was already using and try to etch their name on the overflowing statue of an idea or would sit on the wrench to keep their boots out of the muck and calmly sip the vat of acid, sick of wondering exactly what chemical the name generalized.
At some point in my life, Aylett crawled in through the rafters, used the acid to reshape the wrench into a key, and began flinging open locked cabinets full of floppy, iridescent skeletons and stacks of receipts for various chicken sandwich encounters. His writing works like an anarchist maid, unhindered by standards of clean, but at the same time mopping up here and there only to turn the grey water goo green with venom and spritz it about the house plants, sparking magnificent growth and a new sort of hazard to my blood.
Heart of the Original should be tattooed on every dog and ran about in a circle on crescent moon nights for the edification of all living and dying things.