I picked up City of God in the winter of 2014 after a year or so of preparation. My swash-buckle existence in Hell, New York, afforded me a room with a window, bed, a chair squeezed in against the wall so as to prop up my legs on the bed in order to read or write, the hardcover was a no-go - this was a let down, as Thomas Merton's introduction seemed as if a near divine green light in this bleak hour of my life, or Augustine had put it, 'This matter of days.' I ventured out and picked up a paperback copy - and then the proverbial storm of shit began.

Last Spring some friends came upon a mind-condition hardcover copy of City of God; as Fortuna would have it, I also came upon a room with a desk. This little digital, public catalog, is no place to divulge in the advanced, nearly incurable medical condition which held me in a vise-grip for many months afterward.

As I healed, as the manuscripts which generally went nowhere were polished and handed over, I knew it was time, at last, for City of God.

Some months later (This past weekend) I was talking to an acquaintance of mine, a nurse, who asked me, "So what music do you listen to these days? Reading anything good?"

"It's funny you ask," said I, Author, attempting to press my temples together, so as to implode my brain. "I've been listening to Schubert, if anything, and I am about halfway through City of God. Do you think this has anything to do with my malaise, which I until now blamed on some record-breaking winter?"

"It's up to you," said Friend, "But it sounds like a recipe for insanity. I am only half joking."

For whatever reason, this Thursday following Ash Wednesday has been a day of restoration, which includes cleaning up the rooms of my personal library and study. I suppose my writing desk is a bit out of joint, though nowhere near dust, but at present I am working strictly in transcription. What is it? What is the problem!

Yes, yes, yes. Augustine, I have halted you at your commentary on Plato. It shall be the perfect place to pick up again in the future. For now, I must end this. If I am going to carry on this Crusade of mine in 'Read now the books you've always wanted to read, but knew not enough about life and literature and history to fathom; like a good drunk, the first step is admitting it: I must now step forth to a secular Tome, in Edward Gibbon, unabridged.

Tell me Old Master,

Tell me Everything,

Knowing this, &

More importantly,

Understanding:

All Sane Men have

the (Scottish) Rite

to Admit:

"I am sick to Death of Doctrines."