This will be of interest to few people, I suspect, and that is fine. I used to write about important things: life and love; the material and spiritual worlds; the tortuous path of human history; God, his angels and his saints; and matters of the heart. My brain is like a compost pile: full of decomposing, rich loam that is slowly fermenting, oozing from my brain to my fingers on the keyboard. Yet my hands never get dirty – except when I’m not writing.

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