A cup of O.

Well, I may as well confess. On sunday afternoon the craving for O had given me such an ache over the back of the neck that I had no choice but to sneak into the personal rooms Of Father Ian, chaplain of Southwark cathedral, and the drum and bass of my temples was so relentless that I could do nothing but throw my crushed up poppy heads into his kettle and, when boiled, take the kettle outside and, throwing myself on the grass, wait for the lovely O to steep. There was no time to investigate the suggestion of pornography under Father Ian's cushions, but certainly it lent a balance in the moral reckoning of our situations, so I lay back on the verge feeling like the god of my own singular needs yet wondering, too, what I would have said to Father Ian if he had found me in his closet. I like to think I could have turned it around and departed his rooms, perhaps having thrashed his buttocks with a few sticks. I returned home in a swoon, and slept like a baby.