An e-mail is looming in my consciousness like a ink blot on the firmament. An ink blot made of the condensced hearts of broken seraphs, the teardrops of the thrones and purple prose.

Once reading, it will mean either one thing or the other. At the moment, however, it is Schrodinger's e-mail.

You know - I haven't had quite this feeling since I was bouncing e-mails with Helen Dalley over our mutual bastard-dom.

Let's see what it says.