I CAME ACROSS AN ARTICLE IN the midnight hour: that time of the night when sleep seems far away and the monsters of uncertainty, doubt and insecurity circle the bed. This is the time between the first and second sleeps, when those of an earlier age might rise after having bedded down at dusk and achieved their eight hours, to pen metaphysical poetry by the light of sputtering candles, until overcome with drowsiness again.
I am not given to poesy and rather than rise and light a candle, I find myself fending off the midnight belligerents by checking in on the fourth estate’s publications from around the globe. The big city dailies have a well-indexed litany of local and global horror stories that either send one into a foetal curl beneath the
