incandescens

Every summer I complain that it gets too hot. Why break a great tradition? It's too hot.

It seems a shame to be able to look back on the day and find it so empty. Heat. Cleaning. Sausages. Watermelon. Books. Writing. The sound of the computer fan from down by my left knee. Rising tomorrow morning for a second week's work at the new job. Tony Blair apparently having a chance of getting in for another term. Have we no sense, no memory, no judgement? Apparently not.

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Sonnet: England in 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, --
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, -- mud from a muddy spring, --
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, --
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field, --
An army, which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, --
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless -- a book sealed;
A Senate, -- Time's worst statute unrepealed, --
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestous day.

-- Percy Bysshe Shelley