The world is only the world, and I am sure we have no business here, the greatest injustice being that, after all this time, I still have not been able to divest myself of you. I have purged myself, I think, of the rest of life, of desire. I hide somewhere just outside the city in a flagrant, white chunk of a house, the diffuse architectural interstices of which have served, occasionally, to flatten my memory. Objects I find there--a white speaker phone, paper shredder, chrome water spout--stare back at me as if to suggest that I have already been outmoded.