The writer turned to the Internet with a triumphant glare in his eyes and a posture dripping defiance.
'I'm back, you sons of bitches, and there's nothing you, you or you can do, to stop me from doing that which craves doing.' He said, pointing at YouTube, Twitter and 4chan in turn. His voice was like unto a god, and those under his proverbial feet - those crumbling pillars of distraction - would bow before his words like grass before a storm. His fingers wrote, and each letter was a clash of blades. Each word a crusade. Each sentence was Ragnarök.