Long hours of darkness and all safe, warm and snug in the hold of welcome slumber. All but me. In the embrace of my Hippocratic prison the sonic melancholy of my romantic, libertine England. My soul overflows, the tears nesting in wee pockets and crags, flowing over the geography of my face. Bound to stillness invulnerable to respite, I quiesce, in the maelstrom of my being. An olive green light multiplies across the horizon of my captivity. [12/14/98]