In which I am in Mourning.

I have lost, dear reader, some very good friends of mine and wish to default to the (paraphrased) words of a soul greater than mine to express my resulting sorrow...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Behold my cold bare hands! Let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes drone up high at public cost
Scribbling on the sky the message They are Lost
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves¹.

They were my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought my gloves would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

A few days ago, dear читатель, when the weather had gotten sufficiently cold & windy, I sought out the welcoming warm embrace of some old friends. I have not until now felt strong enough to relay to you the following truth: Alas! Alack! Woe and despair, they were nowhere to be found! However shall I now survive the winter? Without them, I am not sure I want to....

¹Dual Fingerless gloves/mittens, of course. As a sign of respect.