I began to remember my earlier dreams; before I’d sought forgetfulness of all nocturnal sleeping visions, and where I had been the centre of both attention and action. The dream acquiesced.

Still disembodied, I observed “myself” regressing Nat. Everything was going well, until Nat began to melt, dissolving into amniotic fluid, semen and female sex secretions. I was able to halt the imagery—which I found horrific—but the respite was all too brief. I found myself ensnared within a glass dome surrounded by an orange haze. As far as I could see, there was row upon row of similar structures each containing one, or on occasion two, knotted and furled pink figures. Gradually and grotesquely it dawned on me that in the dome opposite me was the foetal form of Nathaniel Snoxell, his features rudimentary but unmistakable. My deliquescent friend had metamorphosed once more. We were in foetid formaldehyde jars. With immense concentration, I dreamt happily of friends, so successfully that I obliterated the “nightmare”. Almost.

WED APR 30

Today was Nat’s birthday. He doesn’t seem like a person of nineteen. At least his life is not so “baby-like” as it was before we started the primal therapy. He gets out of the house each day and keeps busy with his drawing. He is far less nocturnal now. I do not think that he is, or ever has been agoraphobic, but just needs constant rousing to prevent him underachieving. I simply cannot believe Nat when he says that he is “lazy”: the recent artwork he has shown me, and his strict adherence to a well-balanced vegan diet, resolutely disprove such a myth.

MON MAY 5

I dropped by again at Nat’s today. He said he’d had his hair cut. “Oh, which one?” I asked. He didn’t laugh.

His mother told me that he has asked her to buy him a guitar—an acoustic one. She didn’t seem enthusiastic until I demonstrated my approval. Any activity, however noisy, is helpful. “Be thankful it’s not amplified”, I suggested.

TUE MAY 13

Nat rather sheepishly confessed to having acquired an acoustic guitar. He became even more uneasy when I informed him that I already knew. The fingers on his left hand were raw, so eager is he to learn, and he has even overcome the beginner’s bane of sustaining a chord. Although at the moment he only aspires to long drone-ridden dirges, I believe that his fascination for the instrument will eventually educe much more beneficial effects, most of them probably not musical.

I fixed a time for another primal therapy session. Nat didn’t feel it was necessary, but I persuaded him.