MARGINALIA, 2

Here in this neck of the woods I could either sink or swim. The locals stress on sticking to the path, especially at night. For not that long ago some drunken english went to watch the stars at the end of the world, stumbled on some crag and caused at the very least a crick in one of their red necks, tearing their flesh and tumbling one or another over the edge like a tangled ball of beer soaked string. I spotted Joseph Balam making the rounds of the rotisserie. Eventually we came to chat again by the club's coffee machine. He looked different. The neat manicured beard gone in favor of a thin mustache that if anything only accentuated his potential mischievousness. He said he was surprised to see me again. I spoke of a persistent desire to make everything clear, once and for all. But why, why come back, he wanted to know, before confirming that yes, he did receive in the post a picture postcard a short while before the crash, and yes, it'll still likely be around the house somewhere, and yes Louis, you can have it if you want, before adding: