I remember a particularly rough night at college when coloured patches -mostly purple- were pretty much all that I could see no matter which way I turned. A few strong friends had to carry me back from the open air theatre all the way to my room. I did not see much action the next day as I kept my eyes closed to avoid being spun out of my bed. A lesson was learnt and nothing close to this ever happened again. However I wish I knew of St. Vivian back then...http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/05/26/080526fa_fact_acocella?currentPage=all Is there any place better than The New Yorker for finely crafted prose?
