I've seen you out there behind the lines at festivals, slipping glow worms into the pockets of your enemies, only to trace them back to their rooms at the Sebel Townhouse, the Hyatt, the friend’s loungeroom floor... I've seen you at work with clockmaker's-grade radium, painting the blades of knives at dinner then sitting back in a moth-eaten Prince Valiant haircut, watching through Lace Monitor eyes as your opponents in poetry and publishing get sick, slowly, with glowing tonsils. Go back to your weatherboard sniper's tower and open the Book of Regret. Your work amounts to nothing but a page torn from Enid Blyton.
I've seen Bob send a pigeon out from Box Head with a 10 kg line looped around its foot and a fresh botttle squid pinned by two chemically-sharpened 5/0 hooks swinging in the wind. I've seen him tug gently on the mainline when the pigeon was halfway to Lion Island, whereupon it released the line to the sea. It's an ancient form of fishing, older than the Maori kite fishing. I myself use pigeons. When the Red K read in Melbourne, I sent 10 tumblers into the auditorium to beat the side of his head with their wing-joints. He took it for applause, and bowed redly into their sudden absence.
I tell you these things because it's clear you need to get out more. You need a horizon to focus on.
Do what you have to do, and I will shave my lemons.