Paul Graham Raven

Old oak bears weight across a sea of years, its splits like lines in a face that's really seen some stuff—but what would it know of WEEKNOTES? This week, wands are threefold bold and bright, a trilogy comes to an end, and Ted lays down the law.

In February the sun returns slowly, like a scorned but needy god, and we prostrate ourselves before it with offerings of incense, firstborn lambs and WEEKNOTES. This week, finish lines are approached asymptotically, and the eschaton is retrospectively re-immanentised.

Past the old oak pillar and up the concrete stairs—that's where you'll find the WEEKNOTES, at least until the free beer runs out. This week, shells are haunted, and implausible worlds imagined with an uncanny thoroughness... oh, and a short story is published, too.

Slipping on the bison-skin cloak, dancing around the fire in the lowering light—WEEKNOTES will banish the unquiet spirits which ail you! This week, the train remounts the rails, and the deep past is as alien as the far future, while also as familiar as childhood itself.

The sun slouches out from behind the shoulder of the castle—and WEEKNOTES bask in a brief moment of winter morning light. This week, the incubator inducts a new egg, and the English language is instrumentalised.