Just back from long outing under complex sepia-toned skies, P still doesn't seem quite himself, wandering deliberately but aimlessly, 'Salvador Dali's Garden Party' stuck in my head, elaborate fantasies of having a large back yard, obsessive landscaping projects, eccentric structures, A Rebours, mournful countenance, dangerous visions.

Apparent systematic conflict with a judgement I trust as much as my own, closest somebody like me can come to a crisis of faith, intently working on resolution with as little abandonment of premisses as possible, should learn some more efficient sort algorithms.

Total exhaustion, bottomless well, what do I know about love?