The Twelve meet in a small room (with the Russian critics)

And what did I do today? Did I not start off the morning with a bowl of lovely corn square cereal while reading the Farmer's Almanac in the most comfy chair in the world? Yes, the one you were sitting in the other day. And O, what fantastic research than sprang forth on New Criticism and Structuralism and even Mikhail Mikhailovich Bakhtin. (Yes, yes, you are good friends with him, I know). Were you there when I played guitar this afternoon? My fingernails are getting long which means one hand plays guitar better while the other plays worse. I played a game of chess. Russians like chess, no? I realised that sometimes I do not take the time I should to plan my moves. Objectives! I forget to set smaller goals, and then I lose. I should be fed to the big dogs! We had house church in the evening. You may have been there. What an incredible atmosphere of a dozen people singing in a small room! Last year it would have seemed inconceivable. The pasta was amazing-the food always is. Why did I have so much coffee? Tell me, Rabelais! I will be up all night, and then I will hear them--the ghosts in the other rooms, who wail in the deepest hole of night. I see them-a poets mind is too quick, you know. Imagination for him is like the dog unleashed with meat in all directions. Maybe I am no different-maybe we all can hear, maybe we can all imagine.