B gave me a box of Japanese art journals from the sixties. I kept this torn page. It has been tucked amongst the souvenirs for ten years. Sometimes it has joined the ephemera on my desk, gathering marks, proof, evidence along the way. Traces of fly poo and spilt coffee. The most loved remainder of a painful journey. A scrap of paper becoming digital.  The closure of this circle is frightening and soothing. I keep it as if it where a prayer. Stained and real. And I wonder about the function of prayer now the gods are dead. To what does one pray? This is perhaps my small plot of new land. The one Deleuze advises.