Tapestries of life. We weave ourselves into clumsy corners where no spiders dwell. By which I mean: dangerous entities intent on devouring not our bodies but our fluid essence. I don't bleed red like most ... I bleed noetic effluvia, and I try to share it with women who simply don't care ... or at least make fun (which is worse) As I guzzle my beer and smoke my cigars, I think of the Bayeux tapestry, and how my life is little more than a collection of black threads.

O ravenous hell! My evil hatred rises against your power

Catullus, "Dress now in sorrow, O all" Shantih