In Place

Like a Bobcat, but a bit larger I suppose. It had a detachable head for planing off the old bound material and another one with a rotary brush that sweeps into a trap.

I'm more interested in a nice hot Cappucino

When you drive to somewhere that is near the sea - Highbridge for example - and you get the sea-feeling going to and from the car because it's only a mile or less; and then you come away and veer back along the Poldens on the A39. Thinking about it you feel a sharp ache of didn't-make-it-to-the-sea - And then you settle, telling yourself how you like to be marine, coastal, rivage, waterside character, in the zone of Grass Vetchling, how you like the space, and winds that have always something warm. You use literary words to make you think you had something but you didn't. That's how you learn to accept things; to say, well, I did have the proximity...

Look, I'm talking to the pathless backwoods now, the place where my dead ones are seated, with their looks of recognition, waiting for me to come to them. I've just heard about Schumann's aria and chorus for an opera about The Corsair (sketches of 1844). Give me a performance of this now!! (Berlioz's overture can come later - it wasn't originally connected with Byron's poem at all, though that's what the final title permits us to imagine...)