You stab all your impressions onto paper in illegible loops, until the words start falling off, until the pages start curling away and you’re left staring at the violence you’ve committed against your notebook. And like a medic who attends to a helpless and dying amputee, you have to sit with it, with all its torn pages deposited like lost souls into what you thought was the bottomless fount of the garbage. Guess what? It has a bottom. And all the papers are rising like stones to the top.