So the city became the material expression of a particular loss of innocence – not sexual or political innocence but somehow a shared dream of what a city might at its best prove to be – its inhabitants became, and have remained, an embittered and amnesiac race, wounded but unable to connect through memory to the moment of injury, unable to summon the face of their violator.

Danger's over, Banana Breakfast is saved.

This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?

The general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will.

Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.

But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

The Saint whose water can light lamps, the clairvoyant whose lapse in recall is the breath of God, the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself, the dreamer whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth all act in the same special relevance to the word, or whatever it is the word is there, buffering, to protect us from. The act of metaphor than was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe or outside, lost.