As the wind, rain, snow, sleet howls outside and pounds on the window, I am rationalising that this tiredness is the result of recovering from a week-or-more-long funk, of the weather, of poor sleep, trying not to admit that perhaps, again, I ought to have my sinuses checked, that perhaps all I need is sleep. Yes, sleep: that blissful unconsciousness that doth restoreth mind, body, soul. Thank heaven it is Friday. How boring am I that I look forward to going to bed early on a Friday night, that I may sleep all the longer on Saturday morning?
Two of my favorite lines from The King of Bede come from the same chapter:
‘A stranger am I, and a wanderer, searching for the edge of the world.’