She Lingers My Desires

So, it's chilly, isn't it? Not nearly, my loves, as it is in Iceland. Which, apparently, is a city in Australia, which really is Burrito-land, in which they speak the language of Burrito.
I did something naughty last night. After forcing myself through another bit of creative writing, which involved Queen Pasiphaë and, peculiarly enough, Diogenes. But only the Diogenes Club inhabited by the most unclubbable men in London, I got on youtube. The great, evil timesucker. And I watched half of Monster by Dylan Moran. And I'm sure I got loads of naughty thoughts about soup with noodles, children's parties, and wine.
But that's not the naughty thing I did. The naughty thing I did was to stay up past bedtime, and subsequently to wake at four the next morning. This means, of course, that my next piece of creative writing is going to involve twelve year old boys struggling through a sudden bizarre streak of divinatory brilliance, strawberries, a cruciform sword as opposed to the rapier, and the significance of Daniel Craig as a lust object.
Obviously, I'm going to be more interested in someone like Nic Cester, but notwithstanding.
I wanted to say something, but the first paragraph of A Midsummer Night's Dream keeps rushing through my mind. Maybe it's just the fault of the cat looking so dreadfully comfy curled up by the fire, or maybe it's that I'm for some reason mind-numbingly happy despite the ache in my veins that is the absence of coffee (I'm soh healthy). Or, perhaps, it's that I'm craving Les Misérables. You choose. But eat this nonsense. I'm getting back into insightful imagery, at least.

O, Ariadne, with your moon-calf eyes,
Enmeshed in Dionysius' everlasting arms,
You grew vine-twigs in your rumpled hair,
Your ravishment a thing of beauty,
Weave your sister's widow's weeds,
Hephaestus will illumine her grave.