Dim Alcoves, Dark Streets, Drunks and Drowning

Much has happened since last I wrote. My respect for Mr Lewis's prose grows with each passing day.
Nearly drowned on Tuesday. In the shallow end. Of a swimming pool.
Oh hilarity - on my way home last night a fantastically drunk Australian decided to hold a public conversation with 'Miguel,' the unfortunate (but very tolerant) Spanish chap sitting opposite. Utterly ridiculous, but incredibly entertaining nonetheless.
It's rather intimidating walking home late at night, swinging my umbrella and whistling in the dark.
It's an eerie feeling, but somewhat calming to sit with one's back to the floodlit hospital sign beamed through the window behind, a dim fluorescent light illuminating the carrell-desk before me and not a single soul around. Transcendental, almost. An incubator for pusillanimity, with the warm darkness from the pit below and a ring of light above in my own sheltered sanctuary, surrounded only by my own thoughts and faint imaginings. Not that they conspire to overthrow me - the opprobium of insanity is too far gone for that, now...
I tire, to change a spare would only count the pennies when the pounds can't quite feed tomorrow. Alas. Courage, for tomorrow.