I can’t trust my face–it’s the only one of the people I know that I haven’t looked at. When the universe leans over and whispers in my ear, it only talks about itself. I’ve been searching my whole life for the site of the tales of sleeplessness and banditry along the east banks that I was raised on. Finding where east is located is the difficult part, locating the particular banks will be much easier. I’m glad my words haunt the Internet electronically like an unruly ghost rather than being written out in letters and books, they couldn’t feel worthy of the expeditions to cross the mountains, the fire, the flood and the waves that would be necessary to deliver them, or the massacre of the ancient forests to make the pages on which they would appear. I don’t look forward to the completion of my thought, because that will be the hour of my death. I hope that the original beautiful, simple idea with which my mind’s activity began will continue tripping and catching itself up in hopeless entanglements until it can never be unwound or chopped off. My goal is to wind every object in the universe that I can find into the skein of my own thought so that getting rid of it would drag everything else down too, like Ahab caught in his own harpoon lines, so no one and nothing would dare to dispose of my mind. It’s the Alexander Hamilton theory of spiritual immortality.