I don't know, I don't understand anything. I mean, I watch, I read, I listen -- but what do I know? Sometimes I think I have an idea, like there's some meaning or something, but then it's gone before there's any resolution. I sometimes slip inside, you know? Like it's my story. I am sure, even. But then, well, it changes again. I think this is really me now, but is it? How would I know? Maybe one of the others is the real me: the man who kills, the boy who hunts, the detective, the surgeon, the amnesiac, the victim. I shudder to think that some of those lives might really be my own. Their reality scares me, even as I wake from it into another. And another. Sometimes there's a theme, I think, a reason for this one to come after that one, but even that passes, and I am in a reality, and for a time, it is mine.