God, what a terrible campus! The towers are like the towers of Mordor, W. says. Like the crags of doom. In the tiny bathroom on our floor, the light flashes on and off. A fluorescent tube, humming and flashing on and off. I bring W. to show him. It's like something from David Lynch, we agree. It feels like a symbol, but of what? There'll be a murder here, later, we agree. Or a suicide. One or other of us will throw ourselves from the tower, from one of the crags of doom. Or perhaps we'll both hurl ourselves down to the concrete …
We need to get out of here! We need to get away! W. suggests we head to Wivenhoe, the fishing village where he used to live as a student. We could find a pub, settle down for evening, and then walk out along the sea, taking in the ozone. But I insist we board the conference bus, and head out for the dinner. We've paid for it, after all.
Why does he listen to me?, W. wails. The bus hurtles through the counryside, branches crashing against the windows. Oh God, oh God, he wails. I show him my cock to distract him. It's a bit like slapping an hysteric around the face. W.'s suddenly sober. He feels very, very sorry for me, he says.
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