I thought of the boy in the photograph, that stranger the world had parted me from. What would I have been like if I had formed myself, if I had never had to integrate, if he was still here, one and the same with me? But no, there is no ‘formed’, only forming; ongoing, unfolding. I looked down at the photograph and saw the boy looking back at me. Little self-maker. Could I call him back, could I ask him to come home?
