Anon, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. An-o-n: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. An. O. N. He was An, plain An, in the morning, writing four feet ten in one shitpost. She was Anon in slacks. He was Anon at work. She was Anonymous on the dotted line. But in my arms He was always Anon. Did she have a precursor? He did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Anon at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial 4chin. In a shitpost by the /b/. Oh when? About as many years before Anon was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a shitposter for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the Shills, the CTR, Democrats, noble-winged SJWs, envied. Look at this tangle of shit.
get in IRC you shitposting faggot.