It is a life condensed into a slim volume in which the heartache that oozes from off every page is as much the author’s individual pain, as it is the reader’s indecision concerning his or her own purpose in reading this book. It was begun when I was only nineteen and conveys much of that adolescence frenetic need to know intermingled with the accompanying stillborn cynicism. There are those who find this to be a poetic and dense thing they pore through in an effort to discover some kernel of meaning within the extended descriptions of minute physical action. It was an effort to make the nonreal real, to push myself into an internal world more snug than the larger insecure world of everyday reality. It involves a man name of Reginald and his son Frank, and how little they understand each other, a man was born with his arms far apart and a space where his body should have been, and a son he abandoned when the child was no more than four come to find him again, and a never-ending stream of memories caught in frustrating little soundbites so that the moment vanishes just as that definitive line would’ve explained it all was about to be spoken.