my body when it is

I've been--for non-Yuletide purposes--reading The Charioteer yet again. That this novel and Hopkins' poetry satisfy me in a peculiar fashion probably points to some deep problems in my emotional and gender presentation and constitution, not least being my identification with neurotic white men I'd probably slap silly if ever I met. Anyway.

( squacking sentimentally about TC )

I should probably quit reading TC and go have my anti-depressants.