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With the possibility of knowing for sure what may (or may not) be happening to you, blocked off, as if a lofty portcullis were dropped to stop my inspection, I resort to imagination. The creation of a thousand possible hypotheses tease my understanding, with each case chasing veracity, vying with its predecessor for special attention - to vent its secret torment. I store the anguish at the back of my mind, in a gloomy accumulation of doubts, while stoutly denying that any apply to the real situation. I repeal their credence, forlornly to start afresh.      For once imagination comes in play,      reality belongs to yesterday.