Caught between the atonal stasis of lived experience and an insurgent nostalgia for the absurd, one often feels the need to actively court despair. What is more important, to distance oneself from corporeal reality. What should be "me" is referred to in a grandiloquent "he," the breathless third person singular of genre fiction. A spy novel, perhaps ? Why stop there? Why not insinuate oneself into racy plot and anxious melodrama? Oh, very well. Vamoose !