November 28, 2019:
Byron, bored with his brilliance. Alone with his loss and his servants. Mourning.
Shelley, narcoleptic, buried alive.
Sex and snooker, laudanum, leaches and Henry Fuseli.
I thought... Well it was an early vision, still a Romantic vision, the Romance of isolation in genius. One scenario of the future my mother programmed me to expect, with Against the Fall of Night and Slan.
I am not that boy but I remember him.