I’m sorry, literature, you who also have something of a guileless and pitying prostitute about you, I’ve abandoned you too in this reverie of self-absorption, reminiscing behind your back. I’m losing you, too, but it had to be done. I hope you understand: I’m trying to put my own jigsaw together, calling out in a voice that has to travel down tunnels that are fifteen, eighteen, twenty years long, calling to my scattered pieces, to the unburied corpses of myself, grotesque spectres that never rest, images that never had a mirror to reflect them, broken glass crushed under the wheels of a thousand cars travelling down the road in the same direction, all going to the same place.