April 1/Starch. Cipher. Pivot.

I told Anja. She was quiet — the kind of quiet that in fifteen years of marriage I've learned to read as 'I have several thoughts and I am selecting the least dangerous one.' Then: 'Is this the thing you've been muttering about in the shower for three weeks?'

Yes. The name is The Clean Slate. She tilted her head. 'Like a detective agency?' I said consultancy. She said: 'It sounds like you help people dispose of evidence.' I said it was a pivot. She asked if we could afford the mortgage on pivots.

I spent the evening designing a logo on an app that kept calling me an Artistic Visionary. I am a man in a beige office chair. I want a business card that doesn't look like 2004. These are my only requirements.

Klaus called while I was doing this — just back from a speaking slot in Amsterdam, 'just a panel thing.' Wanted to know about beer next week. I said yes. I said nothing about The Clean Slate. Klaus has a way of being supportive that makes you feel marginally worse about yourself, and I wasn't ready for that yet.