Still exercised at odd times in memoriam M. F. whom I have now the sense of having barely known. The Goldsmiths slogan-mural could have been any mid-league social theorist of past three decades. Better by far the stuff that made them wince, even when opprobrious, vampire-weakened. No common rhizome routes ergot through to argot, syndicate signalling to fruiting brain-rot. Goldsmiths is rival turf, its ecosystem ill-disposed towards us. Might be guilty projection, panic flashes around New Cross. By acid he meant psyche-manifesting stroke lysergic. Has anyone ever seen it? I mean the psyche - topos of affect, global image depot. On acid I saw blood gurgling from sewers, a floating skull, that sort of thing; then tie-dye coloured Mandelbrotian swirls, an anodyne enough default. I can get weirder on some hours' sleep-debt. But he wrote to get seriously defaced, make legible the ungovernable within our fixed stars' governance, their frozen whim our flexible command. Goldsmiths abides his punked-out sangfroid, seething like a state. The psyche keeps schtum, having with the cosmos zero contract.