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Sometimes I come to myself, which is no small thing. My life is shot through with sudden starts. When there is no sound of the ether, it is as if I were in withdrawal. As if the ether’s noise were the heroin I need to keep myself in the days. Without it, darkness. But darkness is not always evil. Sometimes it is in the darkness that I see myself naked, without the dissimulation of shadows and other lights.

I was told once to hold fast to the small details one can discern in the pitch-black — in that coal-blackness that gives us the colour from which lives are made, consigned to a torpid silence, that of the radio gone quiet. When the radio falls silent, night falls, and with night comes a new day. That is why the existence of a rheostat at this remote radio outpost, in L73, may turn out to be of the greatest importance.

I picked up a book of poems by William Carlos Williams, and fell asleep.

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