greenstorm | Cold Ground

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again'
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'

Today was beautiful. It was so full of people I love. Tonight, Merlyn and one of the girlies lie in the cold ground, and Caramel may not make it till morning. When they were last checked by my roommate, they were fine. The cage still had food and water when I got back to it today. It was a little stinky, not enormously bad, but fine. The rats were not.

Vet's not open tonight, of course. Possibly tomorrow afternoon, though I think by then it won't matter, one way or the other. What do I say? My babies are dead. My Merlyn. My Sweetie.

The world is all death and endings and beginnings tonight.

TS Eliot said it all.