. . .without a doubt, everybody in the world has some sort of dire fear; for some, it may be something reasonable (such as apeirophobia, barophobia, or levophobia), but other people have irrational fears such as claustrophobia or ailurophobia -- but me, I'm different; I'm not sure if my fear has a name or not, but it's a hideously debilitating problem which has caused me much terror, pain, and difficulty throughout the sentient part of my existence in this dimension - the fear of ending a sentence, particularly this one: I know not what causes this fear, this compulsion, this obsession with continuing a sentence long past all sense of grammatical correctness (let alone comprehension by the reader), but I am driven by this horrible anxiety that, should I eventually use some sort of punctuation to bring this rambling stream of cons- ciousness to an end, I will suffer something so awfully, immensely evil that I am forced against my will to continue spewing forth words, clauses, and parenthetical documentation (like this one (heck, some of it's even nested) being used here) in a feeble attempt to dissuade any harm from befalling my physical or emotional states; in fact, once I was driven by my fear to write over seven hundred words without using so much as a period (except in ellipses, which don't count), question mark, or exclamation point to bring a logical stop to the sentence and let the poor reader catch his (or possibly her) breath and reflect on what the heck it was all about (heaven forbid any soul should attempt to diagram THIS) and whether or not it was actually me speaking, or some mutant hell freak possessing my soul and forcing my fingers to dance across the keyboard without ever coming close to any of the endmarks of punctuation, bringing a stop to the erratic verbiage emanating from the deepest recesses of my cerebral cortex and causing massive hemorrhages among several of the illprepared readers, resulting in permanent debilitating paralysis of the lowerregions of the torso and limbs; thus was I responsible for more than twenty cases of this affliction, furthering my fear that, if such were the results of NOT ending a sentence, than whatever could happen if I did end a sentence would be so direly menacing and destructive that I was forced to continue; in fact, this sentence did not really begin at the top of the page -- it was originally started several millennia ago (Standard Galactic Time) in a distant galaxy, and I have been continuing its plot thread since then: the sentence (collectively known as "The Sentence") now spans just under thirty-seven quadrillion words and is larger (when written out in longhand, 12 point type, single spaced with 1-inch right, left, top, and bottom margins) than a fully-grown Vortibeast of Andrexelon (which, by the way, is completely illiterate and communicates by rapidly flagellating its magic nose goblins in rhythm to the swaying of the silicon trees which are quite common there (Andrexelon, not the nose)) and, due to its ever-growing size, must be stored on a seventeen-gigabyte hard disk and kept locked away in a secret government hangar submerged within the bowels of Idaho so as to prevent the massive sentence from falling into the wrong hands/tentacles/sensory receptacles, where it could be used for bizarre and sinister acts against all of humanity (not to mention arachnids EVERYWHERE) and result in the downfall of past, present, and future civilizations clinging to the knowledge that the noncompletion of the sentence holds the very balance of Chaos and Order in its [figurative] hands, and the ending of the sentence will surely cause such drastic chaos and mass carnage that all (except for the news divisions of those networks covering the global crisis) will suffer pain of such monstrosity that surely at least one person will disembowel his entire collection of the Encyclopedia Britannica with a frayed rubber band out of the fear that armed bands of renegade nominatives might leap from the texts and seek to devour the flesh and blood of living entities possessing the vitreous fluids that the words need to survive as two-dimensional objects in a three-dimensional world which, in fact, happened when I completely finished the seven hundred-word sentence mentioned above some time ago in the ancient realm of Mu when I was just a young lad and unskilled in babbling like a total idiot about nonsensical subjects just to postpone the downfall of carbon-based life forms such as the Grand Vizier of Mu, who once remarked to me that "In the Time of the Celestial Wombat thine profound passage shalt come to an end with a cataclysmic exclamation point, and the heavens shall bleed forth bile and the seas shall turn red with a light, frosty coating and man will kill man, brother will kill brother, and lungfish will kill lungfish in the final battle between the forces of Good and the forces of Steve" and ever since that monumental speech I have been writing this epic tale of beauty, truth, and invertebrates in the vain attempt to rewrite the future and defy all that the science of astrology stands for in the universe and to, at the very least, wait until the cataclysm can occur at a really cool time (like on Friday the 13th or during the Superbowl or on a Monday) when the arrival of the Four Horsemen (John, Paul, George, and Ringo) would throw the cosmos into such a vast disarray that I could easily utilize the mass confusion to usurp control of a (conveniently located) star cruiser and blaze away into the nether regions of the universe and conquer other civilizations with bizarre literary techniques (I could pun a world to death, for instance, just as long as I'm on Geno's side) and creatively inserted subliminal I will win messages wielded against the hapless send me lots of money inhabitants of wherever it is I invade with my one-man army of toxic materials and plasma cannons aimed at centers of civilizations unexpected to combat my literary onslaught of maniacal adjectives that have been subjected to the cruelest experiments ever gleaned from the recesses of a "human" mind and used with no apparent reason against other sentient creatures for the mere purpose of psychopathic desires and a personal vendetta against any form of life capable of creating The Dukes of Hazzard or some other torture of similar ilk brought about by network executives possessing brains only capable of quasquicentennial flashes of brilliance somehow believing that creatures capable of rational thinking could enjoy watching drivel obviously written by dozens of maltreated gibbons forced to pound furiously at typewriters with blunt screwdrivers and producing vegetative scripts pasted onto the back of warmed ice cubes just sitting around liquefying into a large watery puddle of faulty prose and gibbon food, similar to what one may find withering away in a maggot-infested corner of this eternal manuscript, obviously dropped there during the infamous Gibbon Revolt of 2364 which nearly caused me to cease producing this sentence (and almost cease living, as well - which could have proven to be merely a minor setback) due to the revolting gibbons revolting across the land against their evil tormentors, the tormentors' families, and anybody else in the general vicinity (gibbons are not known for their ability to discern complex shapes well, after all) who looked especially tasty and/or covered in bananas (I apparently fell under the latter category), attacking those victims with misshapen avocados (which compromised the gibbons' food) and the detached limbs of prior victims until the gibbons were dispatched by an experienced commando team of elderly janitors wielding phasemops and pulse brooms in an astonishing display of the power of hightech cleaning equipment in the hands of experts. . .