Formation is paramount, he said, as he drifted up and out into rhythmic totalitarianism. I looked down at the book in my hands, my journal, the entry under yesterday’s date read: there are three ways to poison the body—too much salt, too much sugar, and too much discipline. That reminds me, I need to buy a washing basket. The greatcoat I bought in Boston lies strewn across my doss-mattress. The weather is just heartbroken enough for me to wear it today. I think I’ll put it on and launch myself out into the heavens to think upon the colour of her hair, how she might change it to suit her new life, now black, now blue, now to spite me, now simply to think hard upon such things. Moreover to think no more about me. The weather is changing now. Warming up. Trying to shrug off its very nature. It, like me, can’t say where this antithetic genealogy stems from. But I remain suspended somewhere in the belief that it has a bit to do with all of these previously unreleased sleeve notes in my head.