I've been pushing this blue folder round my desk since friday. It won't serve as a coffee coaster but neither can it be ignored. But can I bear to read it? This morning it landed on the floor. I figured that by looking down on my novel for a few days I may start to consider it as something to chuck out and yet, as time goes by, I begin to recall the mood, the tone, the characters and even, this morning, a few lines came back to me, verbatim. I was, to be sure, an insane young man. To read the novel would be to remember a self, to break a seal on the past. Sure, I may have been a louche youth, falling into bed with everyone. But I damaged a few people, too, not least due to my occult activities. By my late- twenties I was doing soul work and, desperate to redeem myself, I gave it everything. I gave it my proper blood, and never looked back. Yet, perhaps, when I do look back, I sense nothing has changed except my intentions. Now, I do...good. I am in no mood to remember any of this. I was an insane young man. Caked in lunacy. For a moment, I felt giddy. I considered calling Karen and giving her the latest on her son. Which, of course, would have been...bad. Mercifully, George rang. English's 1pm. Thank god.