And now I understand why these pages' scribbles exist in such visual dissonance with the scathing notes on the thesis papers I've watched Rémi grade, with the meticulous waves and loops that characterize his hand: these are not Rémi's papers at all. The date is wrong; he is no older than sixty; he would have written this as an eight-year-old were this his, and thus, it is not; whose then? His father's? And to whom did the typed note belong? A younger brother? Or stranger still, a son?

There is too much about Rémi that I do not know, too much I never asked him to articulate while observing him atop his gin-soaked soapbox; there was no Q-and-A portion during which I could inquire as to why his humble life as a tenured professor and freelance artist exists in such theoretical dissonance with his absurdist delusions.

(Or do those go hand-in-hand?)

Now, it is time. Now, I hunt.