". . .But perhaps I will find occasion to dust off dreams, mothballed, creaky from disuse, some future day when Misery no longer has me in her thrall. . ."
This is something I cannot allow myself to think, I'm afraid; postmodern weltschmerz lays too great a claim on me, clouding the vision of my mind's eye to such an extent that it cannot distinguish hope from hazard. Such myopia makes me timid, tremulous.
My hope and joy, nearly seven years in duration, have long since been eaten and digested, and I have been shat -- I AM shit -- into the dunghill that is the resting place of all of Fortune's nearsighted fools.
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