I have made a Rainbow. It is something less than three inches thick. Now, of course, I have to read it all again. After a certain number of repetitions, all of our words and sentences—even the most well-strung—become meaningless. Some writers would put the Rainbow in a drawer and go out into the world, talk about feral cats or city chickens or the height of snowbanks with the neighbours; read about celebrity murder in the newspaper, and then the comics; have tea and almond croissants with friends, then free-range pork loin with the family; watch movies about ships sinking; buy a new car on kijiji; clean the new car, and then the house. They would, in short, attempt to forget the words and sentences—whether well-strung or less so—configured by their own hands upon the page. Myself, I don’t have this much time. I’ll sleep, and hope to be an amnesiac tomorrow.