And so this morning, stumbling out of bed like an English poet, I took a piss in the third and, surely, the final bathroom in Axel's boat. A measure of peace came over me as I watched the arc of my urine. It was good to know my waters would be slipping so economically into the waters below me, rather than piped around town with all the fanfare and administration of that. Am I warming to nature? Ah, I'm too old. Only it's deceptions really interest me. Of course Axel's largesse is legendary but he did request of me one thing. And for godsake, he said, just don't move, don't sail her, or screw her, or go anywhere at all with her, please. Now I understand that his boat is so big if I were to sail it anywhere it'd probably cause a diplomatic incident, perhaps even the recall of the depressed Swiss who is renting my house, very likely teasing himself to sleep, this minute, with my very own Mapplethorpe's. How far do I have to go to sleep in my own bed? Will terrifying the Dutch, do it? I shall finish my notes now (ah, my clients, do I deserve their loyalty?) and then take a brandy onto deck, all the better to see Caroline and the outline of her bra, as she slowly closes her curtains and then I'll return to the kitchen. I shall light a candle, brew some coffee, and, in my journal, I'll try to make sense of the last twelve weeks, holed up in a tiny room in Wittenberg, grieving, insane, and learning an altogether different trade.