5pm, home.

It had been a fucking awful day in every aspect. I wasn't aware of my anger but, pushing open the front door, I sent my post sliding the length of the hallway. There was parcel, a book. With equal aggression, as if by continuing it I could make the anger ironic, or normal, I tore the jiffy bag into tiny pieces. It was Anti-Oedipus by Deleuze & Guattari. I remembered this book. I once read a few pages as a student, in the early eighties. Wasn't it a rant, an hysterical attempt to turn Freud into Marx? Or Marx into Freud...? But why was it here? Here, in softback...Why..? Was it Gareth? Perhaps this was his apology for wanting my room. Was he saying no, really, I am not Oedipal, not at all. I am just...

Thom?