Few things are more magical than words.
The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I'm choking on the stuff. Praise be to fifteen centuries of kings and queens that the flavour rolling over my tongue wasn't fecal matter, but blood.
Not much of an improvement? When you've been struck with a virulent plague of sticky notes and gluey tabs polluting text after returned text, you live with the consequences of invisible, no doubt dangerous retaliation. Oh sure, combing through the musty, cobwebbed crypt of a repository did wonders for my respiratory system, but when the rumours proved their whispered veracity and that infamous, sepia-coloured cover, a disturbingly wan hue of ancient skin, was glaring back, in here of all places, I knew whatever pain befell me would be worth this grim endeavour.
Believe me, even I questioned such a fantastical sentiment after a whirling dervish of tomes, tumbling out of the rank air from nowhere I could discern, nearly buried me alive between the stacks, those grey steel walls lording and laughing over my bruised form prone in the valley below. But after I somehow wormed my way home to patch myself up, I turned on the telly and smiled.
Scotland Yard was baffled.
Death by a thousand cuts was no longer a mere phrase.