Finding myself eastward bound, the sub-continent straddled and the orient in my sight, there might be some new cogitations here soon.

Having purchased sufficient cans of stout to aid my evenings contemplations I raise the collar of my jacket and step into the rain. It is the type of rain which is neither heavy nor light, and it fits well with a debate I've recently had with myself about the nature of rain and my preferred methods of sky ground liquid exchange. I am not, of course, the first to engage the subject rationally, but it is my hope that with sufficient effort I may well be the one to close the matter conclusively. De Selby (Tractatus Investigatus Precipitatus) held that rain occurs due to the fundamentally circular nature of space...

Isn't pubbabble a wonderous thing? As the sages and thinkers of old were held raptured by the sound of little brooks, at once aimless and yet purposed are not those of a modern streak to be found contemplating just the same in licenced establishments nationwide? It is so. For does not the wandering brook sing a sweet song of anarchic predestination? Is it not emergent? Just as a drop itself cannot hold ones ear neither then can a lonely voice, and so it is with stoutscented speech, hollow in and of itself, manyfaceted in conjunction. Listen to them, and hold eyes on your glass. As the thinker once cupped up soundstuff from the river to quench his lips and unify with his muse so too shall you, the thick rhythmic conversation lies liquid in your glass. Which is it? Is it the dark soot black of eveningtalk, stoutcondensed gossiptalk, or is it the golden glow of whiskeychat, tenuously potent, and ever at peril of dissolving into air. And isn't it here truth always lay? Not in the temples, nor in the confessionals, not in gavels, nor in lawcourts, isn't it on riverbanks, isn't it in dark pubs? It is so.