It's no exaggeration to say that I have to rebuild the tower in each city. The texts there come from a different construction of things. Like the fellow in the back of the caravan who rebulds his house of cards each time they stop for the night.
It could be much worse, of course. I think of the roughest times in the city where the days basically amounted to continuously taking a small hammer (or perhaps a large rock) to the intricate pocketwatch that I had constructed in conservatory. Here, there is a point in the rhythm for the creation of the means. A time of flowering. That point in the dance.