I heard the Gustave Dore fall from the letterbox as I sat on the can, taking an uneventful shit to the dying strains of my favoured Gorecki. The Dore is a scene from the Inferno and yet, while I have listened to the recording in my car every morning, the purchase of the print was somehow bound up with George. In short, I wanted to share it with him. Our friendship began in hell and, assuredly, will end there. Why, perhaps we are closer to that end than I ever imagined. These are ruminatons that have no basis anywhere but the id. Oh god, I am infinitely subtle when it comes to men, but in dealing with women I lack manners. How can I ever take seriously his ridiculous Thai girlfriend? Of course, mine is a very artful barbarism, and one that has served me well. No, I am under no illusions. It is the manner of my controlling the beast, the art of it, that delivers, not the beast itself. Are we not all burdened with what we don't yet know? Oh, I have tried, but I simply cannot imagine entertaining George without taking the bait and pouncing upon the Thai. And George? He expects nothing less. And so it was I spent the night alone, indulging the Dore, taking a dose of O, on my guard against the passive, sleeping early and dead to the world.