This is an extract from a letter that I sent to my brother Andrew when he was in the states. I will be writing some new things later but for now, while I am trying this technology out, it will have to do. I hope you like it anyway.

The Deluge

The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.