Can’t. Feeling low. Browsing through The Portable Romantic Poets (blogged before about the book here) looking for something mournful enough to match my mood. This can’t be healthy.

“I am the self-consumer of my woes.”

I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death’s oblivion lost;
And yet I am, and live – like vapors tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams . . .

That’s from I Am by John Clare, which would be a bit much here, copied over in full, even in my mood. A fragment’s enough.

Tomorrow’s a new day. I wish it were spring, though, instead of November.

I wish, I wish, I wish.