Our laptop died this morning, and took with it thirty pages of notes for my manuscript. I feel, as Elegant Choice would say, like bursting into animals.
I hope to return very soon. You will hear me coming; the trumpets of my periphrase will toot in your ears. In the meantime, please amuse yourself by reading a late Wallace Stevens poem over at Reginald Shepherd's blog, along with some handsomely bespectacled commentary. Perhaps I will turn to Wallace Stevens today to chop down my hundred-headed sadness. I need badly to be engulfed in a pair of afterliving arms.