James Joyce's Molly Bloom. Why do things always look better on girls. Va-va-voom, and all that. Via a site with some literary tattoos.
Was going to see P but he is too ill now. It is very sad. Nevertheless, still London for meetings then read at the Poetry Cafe, and stay overnight at C's mother's. Life is all too too too. The desk is a mess and so is my head (the two usually go together). The air of unreality is familiar and haunting. Ever more so. Perhaps if life were tidy then I would be. This is all the product of the dreaded word YES (see above), a word people generally like.
The sun has come and gone and returned, as have the flights, though dear Budapest friends L & G are stuck in Rome, others got stuck in Paris.
En passant, in transit, sic transit.
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