Enter the mysteries of differentiation. Never let go of this oddity, this discomfort of being informed of difference. An aspect of all trades, all endeavors, first impression of foreignness, alien categories. Identification, isolation, partition, differentiation. Never let go. Add a touch of xenophilia. I placed the lights to create a sense of volume, so now everything, the books, the flashlight, the stapler, it all has a fine sculptural form. I'm sorry I had to lie down suddenly on your kitchen floor, it's my jealousy you see, please forgive me, it's my jealousy he said. So we walked, and the air was clean and cold. In the end it has to be about healing. You can go through all of these other things, all of these other processes and ways of living, but in the end there has to be a way to heal. By the same logic I could invent a distant mythology and intervene and interrupt, but I won't because I know what it feels like to be on the other side. I wonder: what was it like before the invention of negative integers? It must have felt different, in so many ways. Indexicality is everywhere, placing values, ordering and directing, as so much water flows around the rocks. When water hits the rock, the idea comes. Or the air. This is the very substance of volume, creating spatial warmth. It's like sleeping under the same roof, and placing our hands on the table in spare moments, and the light flickers constantly but it offers comfort.