It's barely after six, but we're already outside, on the streets, not by choice, but directing our selves toward no where as if we were in control.
I never had structure, Rémi tells me as we walk to the west (a west that is really southeast, but we do not know that, and were we conscious, we would not be particularly concerned anyway).
I was always instead trying to impose an arbitrary structure upon myself for guidance, Rémi says, and when I would fail, when I would disappoint myself (and I always would), all was lost. The depths of Hell were never enough of a punishment for the scummy amalgamation of Earth and materials that lay behind my breast, and flagellation would cease because it just felt too goddamn good.
That method, he says, is close.