There is an idea of
Plan9; some kind of abstraction constructed of dreams and memories, duct tape and cans of tuna fish. But there is no real me: only a scrawny entity with a patchy beard and brutal tan lines, something illusory that longs for things it cannot have again and hungers for purpose in world driven by money stuffed in a cubicle coffin. And though I can hide my worried gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are polar opposites... I am a sellout. I will do the job you don't understand in the place you don't understand. I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for hunger and disgust. Something wonderful is happening inside of me and I don't know why. My nightly lust has overflown into my days. I feel so damn thirsty, on the verge of crushing a fifth by myself. I think my mask of sobriety is about to slip. I have to return some videotapes. And just cool it with the anti-Semitic remarks.