One evening, you might be planning to do some reading and writing, to go to bed at something like your normal bedtime. And then, after dinner, you might learn that for some reason your trainfare to London for the trip you need to take in the morning seems to have gone up £11, and so you might decide that you can handle an extra two hours of travel time if it will save you £18 total, and so you might book a coach ticket instead of a train ticket. But that might mean that you'll need to be on the first coach of the day at, oh, 6 a.m. Which will definitely mean that you'll describe Ely Cathedral's Lady Chapel tomorrow, or later. Certainly not now, when you should already be asleep if you have any hope of being even slightly well-rested when you arrive at a major publishing extravaganza in the morning. You've almost backed out of this trip several times, yet you've stayed with it because it's so scary that it must be the right thing to do--and because you know, deep down, that not a single thing in the world moves you as much as a huge convention hall full of books and the people who live them. Because you? If you were to put a drop of your own blood under a microscope, you know you'd find not only semi-colons but em-dashes and ellipses and ampersands there as well.
And so you'll post your fen pictures--such wide wet green flatness must be seen to be believed--with a promise, as ever, of more to come later. And then you'll levitate off to sleep.