When the city of London exploded, I cried alone for days. Was that it? Crying for a man overseas who hung painting from a west indie tree? Some Imperial freedom from which we develop. The city explodes and buzzes for days afterwards. I think of every word in the mouth of every woman in every building in town. Dracula comes to the Metropolitan centre and we gossip about men who write like Bysshe Shelley and love like Mary. They have angels about their homes, I have heard soliloquised, and knaves in the room. I sob, I am like them, too. The primadonna baby pink fin de siècle will not free me. Where affection is a concept of avant garde and of the outer versus inner comes absolutely nothing but a dissolution of scientific certainty.