A metaphor I once used with correspondents: the game of tennis. One serves, another hits it back, another hits it back, another hits it back. Except, and even as a boy, I have enjoyed some of these absurd sports more than others. So sometimes the volleys are less like the serving of a tennis ball, and more like the cracking of rifle shot. The rifle shot, as in George Orwell's Homage to Catalonia, are not intended to hit the opposition in the head, though sometimes that is the result. Cracking shot.

In unrelated news, the cut in my thumb, the one that darkened the bandage in crimson, is almost healed in an entirety. I cut it removing a broken bulb from it's socket. There was a moment of slicing, after which I dropped the socket and held my thumb together, hoping it was not as deep as it was not.