No, no birthing remembrance (still), but the birth of a darkening induced memory, the end of days on Jermyn Street. (Rear-entrance. No golden crown, no Regina, no shiny knuckleduster door handles; but an entrance around the back, a certain kind of underworld, a certain kind of back passage), in rent boys' Piccadilly (Circus), Shaftesbury Avenue, theatre lights - a million bulbs- loud mouthed texts - wet and filthy streets. Walking away from the institution with Sally B. She holds my hand out of sight and I am holding hers as if it was made of flesh and bone of a God-fed metamorphosis, a protean gift, (precious, precious). I grow somewhat. We end up standing under the high wall at the back of the church of (O.L.O.T.F.) The pavement is wet from the receded flood and is reflecting worlds within worlds in island puddles. Her heavy flesh fills my hands. (mondo pendente). I can never remember what they have felt, try as I may, when I am sitting in the last train, in the reflected interior mirrored compartment, clanking over the points outside Charing Cross Station, across the girdered bridge, over the orange river, to return again to my wasteland, to sit beside the green telephone, willing it to ring.