Though I have 'The Fall of Roman Britain' before me and Chopin in the background I cannot bring myself to pick up a pen. What does that choice say of me? We are defined by our choices, yes, but external action says so little. If we could understand the inner choices one makes we would have much too intimate a knowledge of them. People will always remain their own quaintly packaged mystery. How very heartening. I would loathe for anyone else to know my every detail as I do. Thus we are isolated, each with its own mind, its own finely crafted personal world, its own macroscopic view of events that remain helplessly subjective. The intrinsic - the most mysterious of all.