Suffice it to say, that I plunged deeper and deeper into the Heliconian stream; sonnet following sonnet with such celerity, that long before a month was over my head, I was transformed from a sedate, white cravatted clerk, into a sighing, careless, open collared, black neckerchiefed, ballad-monger.

Sometimes, ideas don't end up translating well. That's the nature of art. You may have the greatest idea since sliced bread in your mind, but when you translate it into a film, it just may not work.

The thirde whiche hath white flowers, is called Hyoſcyamus albus, that is to ſay, White Henbane. / The Choiſe. / The white Henbane is beſt to be vſed in medicine.[…]The ſeede of the white Henbane, and the leaues are cold in the third degree.

I don't know why it is the hours fly with such a strange celerity in the monotony and solitude of such nightwork.