He still felt like he should be excused for speaking his mind. Gwen had stopped returning his calls at this point and it didn’t seem to matter what he wrote. So he wrote more things.

When You’re Going Through Hell, Keep Going, barked the famously depressive Churchill. Nothing could be further than the truth, Lancelot thought. When you’re going through hell, either snap completely out of it into the clear blue sky (because it was only a nighmare) or escape into the dark oblivion of the canyon. Going through hell is boring. Like marathons: bloody nipples.

Where’s the ashtray? You Don’t Care About Nothing Nymore, Due U.

Nothing. No dark horse, no tomorrow, nothing. I can go on: I'll go on.