When a new literary journal smashes the bottle of cheap, effervescing champagne against the iron side of the vessel and declares itself seaworthy, the problem of its existential self-justification arises: why yet another electronic literary journal to add to the online glut of verbiage? Are there not enough of you already?

At heart, we're basically dictators, the three of us; fascists and totalitarians of our own, personal aesthetic visions that we wish to impose on the rest of you, and it legitimizes our literary chauvisnism to have others, who we believe represent or somehow embody that aesthetic vision, published in our name. We hide behind the curtain.

We throw mud and water balloons and rubber chickens at each other until we have agreed upon who is to be in the White Whale Review. Burst your hot heart upon it.