Our hero yet again finds himself on the borderlands between the English Kings and the Dragons of Wales. And it's true, thanks to the abject disloyalty of a technical device that had some kind of mental breakdown at the prospect of Windows 10 our hero was in exactly the same place some months ago. However, there's a difference. This time our hero is not in possession of a hard back edition of the Collected Works of Dylan Thomas the margins of which had been scribbled upon by an unknown who had totally reasonable obsession with Socrates' death. The cynical might think their writer of pulp had forgotten to include that arc of possibilities in his narrative.
Not so, it's a well known fact that in the Northern Hemisphere Socrates' death
is a late Summer through Fall phenomena. The idea of contemplating the Social
Contract through the words of Dylan Thomas and the wisest of men's refusal to
accept exile, is in the early part of this particular year more than this writer
of pulp can handle. In another way, the whole Socrates/Dylan Thomas thing was
just too complicated for a genuine hero to have to make sense of in Spring, even
if it is ideal for the Sabean Genre and perfectly satisfies the tag
Episodic-Discursive-Prolix. In yet another way, your correspondent could well be
be shaving his head, wearing sandals, sackcloth and ash in November, voting for
the Former First Lady.