The Morning After
I remember my first encounter with Deleuze, and the idea of everything being uniquely and differently on the same level. I also remember the bad pun his contemporary made, about how the 20th century might turn out to be nothing but Deleuzian.
The fragments of my work churn in and out of my head, helped by the remnants of the pasta and Cabernet Sauvignon. It has been a long, strange journey. Along the road, I have been helped by unicorns and gryphonesses, by titans and cyclopes, by a flight of wyverns and a parliament of rooks.
But this is the morning after, and I am about to close the chapter for a while.