I am addicted to confusion, confessed Fishface. To whom, if not only to himself, remains unspecified. Such like exactly the confusion of which he spoke. Speaking to the air, say, to himself. Angelo, deaf mute, read this thought appreciative of its mood. Addicted to confusion indeed, still no doubt he’d make something out of it. Usually does, reflected the boy. Always pulling things out of that confusion. Could say perhaps thats why he’s addicted. What are you thinking? my little one. Passed an old boney hand over his pupil’s spikey little monkey fringe.