No poets

I don't really know what to write. Instead of happy, sad, happy, sad it's full, empty, full, empty these days.

I had a good weekend. Ash came to stay. Lots of fun and frollicks and whatnot. Canterbury, Rochester, Chelley-time, walks through nature.

I am finding it increasingly hard to keep a grip and hold on any sort of faith in people. My hands are greased and torn from old labours on the subject, my eyes closed in defeat. There may be no hope for me in this department. Is it me that's empty? Or everybody else?

When everything is sorted in my head, you'll be first to hear about it, Mr. Blogface! That's not true but it sounds nice, doesn't it?

'And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.'