I Work Three Days At Home, And

These Days The Nights And Mornings Have A Tendency To Bleed Into One Another.

She Had Reached A Turning Point. She No Longer Believed That A Situation Could Be Made Better By Writing A Poem About It.

Maybe I've Just Read Too Many Novels. In Novels, Alcoholics Are Always Attractive And Fuuny And Charming And Complex, Like Sebastian Flyte Or Abe North In Tender In The Night, And They're Drinking Because Of A Deep, Unquenchable Sadness Of The Soul, Or The Terrible Legacy Of The First World War, Whereas I Just Get Drunk Because I'm Thirsty, And I Like The Taste Of Lager.

And Of Course There Is Always Joy In Witnessing The Joy Of Others

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.