Today, in grand isolation, I write and write and then I write some more, focusing my vision so I don’t think much more about catastrophe in the Rising Sun and a Fifth Horseman called Contamination, or the air war that looms above desert land already fought over by everyone from the Romans to Rommel. But alas I have no Coleridge consolation, no De Quincey refuge, no tinctures of oblivion. Such are but a dream, and, although I will do my best, I probably won’t find myself writing…
“And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.”
But, then again, I won’t be interrupted by any Man from Porlock.
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The secret word is
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Morphine just helped me wrestle with a particularly difficult spreadsheet - caves of ice notwithstanding.....
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