18th August 1927. 4:15 pm.

1. An earthy flavour on the chessboard of tongues, apparition behind me. Motionless.

2. English breakfasts in the Punjab of endless minds. Memories of Pushkin and samovars.

3. Open eyes, a man approaches me, warming. His hands flop endless, a breathless prayer to Hegelian metaphysics.

4. A cloud of marginal stimulation descends. Heavy-headed, I sit up straight. Another sip.

5. Remove teabag and squeeze. A scalding scum brushes over finger-tips, in guise of Dickens’s Paris.

6. Table takes on aspect of the Prince of Wales, in a fetching Aran knit.

7. Low cello notes on the rumoured tongue of thick ceramics.

8. Desire for cake, or biscuits for dunking, as Abelard at tutoring, rogering Heloise after class. Why nothing in cupboard? Experienced as a castration.

9. Draining cup of dregs, an aroma of old hair and cut grass. Unsure which is most powerful.

10. Recall Schiller pronouncing on teapots. Smashed the rascals up with hammers. Notes of sadness, there.

11. The art of tragedy, an empty tea-cup.