Thom had forgotten his book and so, as I was reading or, rather, re-reading The Brother's Karamazov, I found the section where the monk tells of immorality as the healthy response to the loss of god and, while reading it to Thom after dinner, I reflected on the wonder and luck of having such a curious child. I was reminded of a boy I saw at the station yesterday. He was in a circle of other teenage boys and, as they passed and puffed on a class A substance, this boy, clearly in need of some ontological comfort, stuck his hand into his trousers. Thom will have his own battles but, unlike so many of his generation, it will not involve such a consuming onanism. I was then reminded of Giorgione's Sleeping Venus and yet her groping hand is explorative, intuitive and sleepy, far removed from our station boy and his fear of the world, a fear of his face.