Tonight I would like to lie asleep and think and dream of Airstrip One. This room is small and dark, cold and hard, but if I can but think of her I will transcend the glum confines. It's my turn to ask what the love thing is all about? I heard one bleeding from rape brought in last night. I'd forgotten until now. A poem for the age they'd wanted over in the past, which is a separate land according to...oh...I forget now who!? The mind is slipping a lot of late, which is down to my habits. But I won't admit that even to myself. On my stroll this morning I found I was pondering the possibility that second-hand clothing could be of third or fourth-hand origin (hell, even fifth-hand!). Like I said, I'd like to lie dreaming of that great land. Sometimes I envisage the land as a lady, reclining with grace and allure, on a celestial chaise longue (but that's neither here nor there, a mere aside, so quickly back to the matter at hand). I'm cancelling the ...