1215AM now. It's raining. And for some reason the thunder outside has never sounded so ferocious. Like a volley of cannons. 21 gun salute. Will anyone die tonight?

Or the timbre of drumbeats running, through hands browned by the sun. The devious ways and means people of the ancient days dreamt up to communicate with each other.

Silver shod and sleek; nothing frivolous about this lightning. Similar to the mountains of notebooks around me. Cold War, hot conflicts, the Germany question -
and at the back of my mind, a running whisper, a rivulet of sound: binomial distribution, poisson distribution, permutatons, combination.
singing into my ears now -
hope fades, into the world of night, through shadows falling, out of memory and time
but also, don't say, we have come now to the end...how apt, how apt.

My mind would sometimes like to be a bird. Perch on your windowsill, cock an enquiring head, chirp a friendly greeting
let you know you aren't alone.

The thunder outside growls, the rain marches on, and so must we.

And so it goes,
and so.

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