Welcome to the Terrordrome
So, finally, I have
come in from the cold. I have stepped into heaven itself, the motherlode, the epicenter of the thing itself, and I have been
paralysed. I find that now that I have access to the
full system, I know
nothing.
Now I wander the nodes of everything, an empty shadow of the man I once was, every few minutes rushing to node the unnoded, only to find it analysed, described, projected and deconstructed beyond my imaginings, even. Where I find lacunae, my heart races, my breath quickens, and only then do I realise that I don't know enough to fill in the gap.
For a while I shall remain, until I fade away.
It also appears that having purchased an "Italian" copy of "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" a couple of weeks back to have something to fuel learning-by-translating of Italian, that I have in fact purchased a Portuguese copy, a fact immediately and painfully obvious in the first moment that I sat down in the barber's shop with my brain turned on and gazed at the title "Harry Potter e o Prisoneiro de Azkaban", the lack of z's and the over-use of cidillas in the rest of the text. The clincher was publication in Lisboa. 16 times.