It has been a very, very long time since I read any Foucault. Since I was an undergraduate, I think, though it seems like it can’t have been that long. Foucault is in the aether. I bump into him in other articles; he is the substance of occasional meaty conversation with friends; he is second only to Gibson in retroactively coloring my impressions of Gallifrey. It feels rather odd citing him, as though it should be sufficient to mention him in a handwavy fashion or, alternatively, that I should ritually invoke him like some primal deity.