trying not to watch or listen to the news, the rancid cursings of solitary drunks on their moonlit returns. Too ill for my inky alchemy, though the wolves paw at the welcome mat. I run to the hills and walk between villages, over by Caractacus Pott’s windmill. My friends are sure of what they voted for. I’m not sure of much, not even sure the car will start for the journey home. But I still make plans, as the world wobbles towards darkness. I’m putting up scaff shelves in the study, strong enough to hold a legion of egos and opinions, strong enough for Hem through to Huncke via Hegel. I’ll keep a light burning and campaign through the pages.
