trapped in my rib-cage something throes and aches

On the one hand, harried Henry and the black dog lapping up the scintillating depravity that made the bourgeois knaves scaldingly curious.

On the other, the Scottish play perfumed with a deprived sanctity and a a sink full of dirty dishes, waiting to feed the maggots.

Why not speak of more rudimentary things - the way the comforter grows over warm as stomach rumblings and anxious musings from the committee in the head keep sleep at bay? Or concede defeat to the bleating that keeps twice removed sleep. Not being able to put the world down for a moment that might occasion another moment. 259 sheep later, a succumbing to the id and innumerable fictions of crisis in which I am a grandiose hero bringing supplies to the leper colony’s only accredited priest.

More bare handed, comely faced: I don’t begrudge the enjoyment I get from being ever so complicit in the conditions about which i ceaselessly complain and from which I draw such aggrieved sustenance.