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It is new to me to realize that I can look back on my life and ponder its turns and successes. The decisions I made and the time I spent making them, the women I met, the luck I went without, all are becoming clearer to me, making it easier to decipher the faults and aspects to their unaligned precision—the sort of tuning they possessed:   the astral caress. And still it is odd to have reached this point, albeit early, and know very well that I don't have the answers, that they didn't arrive like I believed they would; and that I will likely continue on without them, sensing an equal and ignorant footing with the rest. I chose a safety in numbers because any real question would have been embarrassing to ask. And who to question?

But I'll admit to being still a young man and perhaps not set in my bearing (although I find it less and less a fault of my own doing). And yet it seems, even to me, that what young men are accused of is often the first indication of their guilt. We serve broken windows and broken hearts. But that is all the more pressing now. It is taut. It makes some of what I tell that much more reliable.

I can afford no cover or front, for any length of time. And the real me is beset by the numerous tunnels of stimulus and response: I am as easily aroused or depressed as the canine next door.

How else can I prove to you that there have been odd, uncharitable times in damp rooms where I've left a woman on a bed, where I've walked out yelling "I've had enough!" and had a cigarette in the street; where I've stepped out satisfied and sure only to be caught by the sirens and forced to shelter in the tube—to become nameless in the raid.