No brooding, you say. I'm trapped in some unholy version of a fishbowl with dozens of innocent people who wouldn't so much as have time to blink if I turned on them, the world I left behind trembles on the verge of a vampiric apocalypse determined by the fate of an infant, and I can't seem to tune into Radio 4 anywhere.

You'll pardon me if I've chosen brooding as an alternative to the nearest patch of sunlight.

[ Not that sunlight ...works. On Hal. ] Besides, it's not brooding, it's--musing.