I went to put pen to blog late this morning when a person from Porlock came a-calling and engaged me at the front door for a few minutes. Sad to say that upon sitting down again before my keyboard, I had forgotten what I was going to write about, entirely. I still can't remember anything some hours later.

Suffice it to say that I feel much as Coleridge might have when a similar visitor assailed him some two centuries ago. On that occasion, the fully-formed Kubla Khan was shattered, leaving us with the still-magnificent fragment we have today. Some have accused Coleridge of inventing the Porlockian to cover for writer's block, which I suppose is possible.

But the mysterious visitor narrative is far more interesting and leaves us with a sense of what might have been, had only that door not been rapped upon all those years ago.