In the pain-processing portion of my brain there is, at present, a backlog; there is a short film playing of a man smoking a cigarette under slightly rearranged stars whose main failure lies in the inability to recognize certain patterns. In this part of my brain the circuits seem broken, which could prove useful if you’re involved with the government or wrestling or if the damage produces a thing that is not pain—perhaps it could produce popcorn or girlfriends or something large and beautiful in the summertime like an elephant or a stranger or many strangers if you could meet them singly, say in a hotel room or along a promenade wearing an effortless hat or following the water down the shore where in one story swimmers start out untroubled into another glowing afternoon, the weather OK even when there is no weather.