Ignorance is a bag of drowned and murdered cats. A bear and a horse tethered together, both dying amongst swarms of flies as their bones are picked like cartographies being scrutinised by pale, lymph-less politicians. Ignorance is a hand grenade with no pin, a boxer with arthritis, a virus about to burst into murderous virulence, a small and pitiful sun that wants to explode. Ignorance is a raped dead body, two weeks gone and left at the wayside. Ignorance is Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, peevish clerks, wife-beaten, life-eaten. Ignorance is Chekhov without a heart. Ignorance is Eliot laid out before us, like a patient etherised upon a table, the waste land creeping up to our ears and nose and into our spines. Ignorance is an old moth too afraid to approach the flame. Ignorance is Kafka succumbing to the Golem. Ignorance is the husks of infected cattle, writhing and crackling quietly in pits of ash and spoiled flesh. Ignorance is all-consuming all-encompassing, all-destroying, and if it's bliss you want then perhaps you ought to hold your breath: I've heard that if you do it for long enough, you turn blue, and die from ignorance. But I guess you wouldn't know that. Thursday, 28 June 2012 I will give you sheep's grass and lay you down so low, swinging you breezily where the rat-race never goes. I will take you to penny-arcades and two-bit rides on the pier, put you in a go-cart - I'll even let you steer. And when we