Where am I allowed to celebrate my transgressions? That's what I want to know. My capacity for reasoning is of no assistance in answering this question. Only obstacles assist me: they direct me to my pleasures as do the banks of a river.

Tuck shop arm, she calls it: one of the many signs of the flabbiness of her aging, thirty-three year old body. The truth, though, is that even an old woman is girlish. She has not lost anything - I still see her youthfulness - she is like a tree, always adding new rings of growth to the sum of her existence, never losing what has come before.

If I were to start a movement, it would be predicated on schism. Within our Orders, it would be required that each new member form a splinter group within a short period of time, in which all the key tenets of its host were repudiated. Mutations would proliferate. Only those who wished to be included would be excluded. In this way, the profusion of sects would become a signature, a sign of my Order's success, instead of an embarrassment.