You can’t tell, but I’m waiting for the train and I tried to take the most secret selfie possible because it’s so weird when you see people taking pictures of themselves by themselves, but I felt compelled to since I felt so tired after the first day of Derrida, but the kind of exhaustion that you want to document. I have no idea what I’ve succeeded in taking a picture of, something that does and doesn’t look like me, which means I’m like only succeeding in imitating Derrida. The contagion of Glas is no surprise, friends! Please allow me this rehearsal. In the secret selfie I covered up my eye accidentally because I wasn’t looking at what I was doing as I was trying to look nonchalant as I took a picture of myself. JESUS! Let’s shake this off. So then I get on the train and the sky was looking gorgeous, and I was feeling a bit ill having scarfed down an enormous cone of fish and chips, which they don’t even have forks here. I mean you eat fried fish with your hands and get really greasy. This was after a long time wandering for food with the other students. Philosophers have almost no leader unless he is already dead I think. I somehow am happier to be a poet than a philosopher but what exactly do I mean when I say that? Poets are alive and philosophers are dead? The sky was like chim chimney chim chimney chim chim chicharee gorgeous and all throughout London I keep singing feed the birds, too, because I realize what I know of London is Mary Poppins and Crass, and maybe just that, because Joy Division and the Smiths aren’t from here. Oh and like Madness and Kate Bush. So the sky anyway rather than me or my covered up eye. This is the sky in my neighborhood in Greenwich after the first day of Derrida. What’s the first day of Derrida mean? I say, whatever you do, don’t miss the hole in the sky. RECALL WHEN THEY OPEN UP THE SKY IN . . . WHATCHACALLIT? Katniss . . . The Hunger Games. Ha!