This morning it is quickly apparent that I am trying to make a book into a rainbow. I see now that a book is not a rainbow, will never be a rainbow, cannot be a rainbow. I have started to weave these coloured pages together three times, but each time, after 20 minutes of confused agony, have returned to my starting point: four quite separate piles of paper, white, blue, pink, yellow. It would seem as useful (and perhaps as viable) to throw all the sections up into the air, and then gather them up, willy-nilly, into a book. Perhaps then the hand of Calliope herself could reach into the air, unseen, and guide them.