The boys’ bodies stabilised at the point at which they were most beautiful. Though there could be said to be some restriction in the variety of type there was no limitation in the number of possible individuals. Where they came from he had not yet heard spoken. He could not remember noticing any women. Would enquire if an opportunity arose. For the moment he felt content to explore the spectacle here before him. He watched as they came and went in the street before him. Boys of all ages, solitary and in groups, self-conscious and unselfconscious. As he lingered on the sight of two in intimate and affectionate conversation, one lounging, his back against the pole of a street lamp, the other leaning before him his weight on his hand against the pole, the old artist in him saw all this as no more than a picture. Suspected it so as a natural consequence of its if not perfection, near perfection, more so at least than could be conveyed here. Poor historian. From each picture perfection radiated. Everywhere he looked a perfect picture. As he had now become, or was it reverted? to a boy himself, likewise a perfect element in each picture. Was it not, he reasoned, that this supposed perfection was just that he could consider himself arrived in some sort of Heaven? A picture set within the context of something else, his ignorance. Everything must be explained, explaining that to himself. The reason being that with explanations for everything the picture would convince. Convincing explanations, a plausibility. Want your memory back? said tartly, the boy in him becoming restless, anxious to be done with these deliberations. This needless balancing of reason between distant facts. In a safe world who needs a long memory? Itched to throw himself in to the life of the streets. Do the clubs, in other words.