Despair and Circumstance, or The Dance of the Sabine Women

The smart thing to do, of course, when everything is rotten is not to post.  Distress leads to error.  Mistakes of all sort.  Weather the storm, they say.  Wait until you come out the other side.  You'll make sense of it when you gain some distance.  But really, I think, that is the easy thing to do.  And I know way leads to way, and the next thing you know. . . . So we beat on, enduring disappointments and hardships and trying to be British about it all, understated. . . stiff upper lip. . . trying to forget that we are more related to Young Werther and the genetics of romantic doom. . . (see--even in distress there might be the well-formed phrase).  But I'd rather have been the Poet of Despair than The Despairing Poet.  Quite a difference there.  So I will try to wrestle with the disorder and give it shape and sense (or sensibility).

And suddenly. . . I feel better.  A bit.  There is something in that brief paragraph, several things, that serve.