Of purest form of intellectualism did he sustain himself, this antithetical hero of the lecture halls.  His thoughts alone kept him warm at night when his wise utterances were once again eaten by the mass en masse.  He could seduce the English language to his every whim, though to convince the lesser man of this was surely more a task than to which he chose to strive.  With his every word being gold, how could he condescend to every beggar and suffer him as paltry a sum as, “Hello”?  Bigger fish were his to fry, and his fire was named Jargon.

I lay upon his lecture-seduction-bed, a scholar hoping to learn the secrets of his knowing sideways glances.  He tantalized with sordid phrase a message of the ancients.  I found myself encompassed with each word of his; every velvet fricative cast its spell.  I made him warm with heart-felt kudos, wrote a rave review.  To have such a master among us lesser mortals, thought I, is truly a miracle.  That is, 'til one day when I tripped upon and unravelled his silken thread of jargon, and I came to the heart of the matter.  His silver tongue and pompous graces had sewn Nothing.  His words were Nothing stacked upon Nothing, wrapped around a vapid heart of Nothingness; and upon these he stood as on a pedestal to be worshiped.  And those who did so saw themselves as elites, following the master.  They were the elites of Nothing.