A long sentence: Maybe I should write hundreds of dozen-page sentences, just to learn how not to garden-path myself like horses raced past barns will do to you, and see if it can convincingly be done without simply stringing reduced relative clause upon reduced relative clause into an indeed long but dumbly cumbersome neck chain—dashes and semicolons seem to me cheap links, but I will certainly need some; on this first attempt I am struggling already eight or nine lines later, struggling mostly because my thoughts and words are playing leapfrog but not alternatingly, and the ware of this Barnes and Noble bookseller is insidiously distracting, what with arresting titles like The Shrewd Christian and Because of Romek, almost as if they were arranged here by the Sentence Length Police, which enforces kay-gee-bee-ically at popular retailers of almost-exclusively-rot like this place is, and now I have even stood up to peruse the aforementioned titles and a few others serving the SLP, which I have already (knowing surely almost nothing of the Cyclopes I will rouse) recognized as a foe I must shrewdly evade (a shrewd Christian I will be, and I’m not talking finances like Neil Atkinson), and now I have allowed this sentence to be altogether determined by my immediate environs, and so I will succumb after a single page, content because it is a debut effort, and call it a sentence.