After having been involved in activities so perilous and improbable as those which it has been my fate to pursue, a desk job has its limits. For the first few months since obtaining the position, I repeatedly quelled my persisting boredom with the notion that I was simply in some form of withdrawal from my previous career. As the weeks passed and the feeling chose not to pass with them, I began to doubt this explanation in favor of the idea that I did not have sufficient closure for what I have called the Stonehenge project.
It is for this reason that I have decided to once again take up the harrowing life of the wanderer, in utter denial of those life-preserving forces which would caution me against it.
And so, I will relay the tale of the Mentals unto its tragic conclusion.

This leaves me, I'm afraid, in yet another distressing predicament. I write to you from a series of tunnels under the United States capital, which is fondly referred to by savvy locals as 'the internet.' While not in immediate risk of capture, these passages are notorious for their winding lengths, and they are as verbose and misleading as the words of the politicians who dwell above them. I appear to be lost.
Good luck.