Another white day. The tree outside the window is barely visible, and the rest of the world has disappeared entirely. This must be what the inside of John Donne's head looked like: the earth drawn in until it took up just his room.
But what care I! There's music in the air (gregorian folk chanting), the writing is going well (famous last words) and there are glasses to be raised for the day that's in it.
Another year wiser. Just how wise is that?