As evidenced by yesterday’s entry (my most bold, shall you not agree?) I’m heimliched by the popular press. Between that and my puffinlessness, I feel turquoise and it may be hours, nay, days, before I’ll once again purr like a lawnmower on crank. Thumby tried perkulating me, pouring milk in my bowl, dropping a hint of tea in it and calling it Chai. But the diluted concoction simply reminist of the news - half-derriered and inaccurate! Once again I recall my Parisian days, husking Egyptology. Oh, to don a Sphinxlike headdress and interpret Rimbaud! More tomorrow. I earnst to sleep.