63. It's not easy for me, you know. Signifier. Nothing? Traces. A footprint in the sand. Leading to no particular place, with no apparent purpose. I'm floating on the geist, if I'm floating at all. Drift, isn't it? The way we live today. Grazing in all these fallow fields. I feel so old. Language. Pastiche. I had nothing to do with it. It was all here before I got here. This whole sordid mess. I lose control of the thing. I'm blind. And you, you're the one in the paint shop who blends it all together. You just sit there on the metacouch, content, in control of the clicker. Damn you, you're the only one who can see. And you never see the same thing twice, do you? You're constructed to see what you see, you know? You didn't choose to be here either. You just found yourself here, n'est-ce pas? Don't confuse yourself. What is going on here has been going for a long time. You had nothing to do with it. You're implicated, but you were born that way. You couldn't help it, and I can't help you.

64.