Here comes December. The month of gray, wet, and cold solitude lurks behind the corner. The time when my Residua are my only company, when I revert to writing in search for that something that will elude me perhaps forever. But this time I am not ready. Not yet. I have to prepare myself for the onslaught of thoughts, wonderful and hideous alike. I have to brace myself; add ballast composed of unread, misunderstood, or forgotten books; rekindle the memory of things future that used to give me comfort. After all, it is still November. The long siege has not yet begun. There is enough time to array my forces without debilitating haste. Thank God, it is still November!