That would violate my Hippocratic oath.

We shouldn’t even be having sex.

“House of blood?!” Vivian interrupted.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You just said you used a house of blood,” she explained.

It took us a while to establish that she was talking about my Hasselblad cameras.

I do miss my Hasselblad, and if I ever replace the film holder with a digital back, I shall rename the camera House of Blood.

As anyone who’s perused the 4 July 1980 issue of the British Medical Journal knows, some men seem to have a curious fondness for vacuum cleaners, but today’s story is perhaps the first time anyone has put forward the anthropomorphic suggestion that a vacuum cleaner ever did a favor for anyone.

Nature abhors the situation, and I’d wager that Sergeant Gary Breidinger does too.

I am going to be rather hard-nosed and say that if you have to find devices to coax yourself to stay focused on writing, perhaps you should not be writing what you’re writing. And if this lack of motivation is a constant problem, perhaps writing is not your forte. I mean, what is the problem? If writing bores you, that is pretty fatal. If that is not the case, but you find that it is hard going and it just doesn’t flow, well, what did you expect? It is work; art is work.

The problem is that Ursula K. Le Guin said that. How can I quote someone who writes about wizards and dragons? I think I will anyway; I've gone this far without worrying about appearances.

“Passion,” I replied.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Thia replied with perhaps a blush, “I don’t want to know about your personal life.”

“Don’t worry,” I responded, “I’m talking about a passion for indolence.”

“You can’t have a passion for indolence,” Thia insisted, “that’s oxymoronic.”

“You’re confusing aggression with passion,” I suggested. “Once you tap into your true hebetude, I think you’ll find a fervor for languor.”

I wasn’t bothered when Thia heaped abuse on my proposition; it’s her loss.