Fit the First

Confession of an Opium Admirer:

After sleeping in on this grey morning, I read more of Thomas De Quincey's Confessions of an Opium Eater, which so far has been platitudes and childhood autobiography instead of those sordid details I craved. I thought of the tasks and chores before me this morning and afternoon, and how much chillier it outside, and the trouble of getting dressed, and--I confess-- opium eating sounds delightful. Opium sounds like the sport of bedside philosophers, princes of thought, and the coffee I have in my hand the bitter encouragement given to worker ants.

Poor lost snark hunters, with no opium to comfort them

After all, there's a reason that I am reading the Confessions concurrent to Lewis Carrol's The Hunting of the Snark. Either the Confessions need to pan out more, or I need to secure some opium.