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I imagine myself calmly recollecting, riding as ever through the dry Pingtung sunshine among banana plantations, overcome with joy as I pretentiously sing "Make me Mayakovsky", "Bring by Borges", pretentious because I've already subsumed their words and it's their imaginings on which my wheels grip and over their lines that I zip and believe you me when I get to the tip of a cannon boom and sweep out the whole room of tumbling letters and revelations it is in their clothes that I work, wearing his bow tie and his underpants. When, in a jealous whisper, I wrongly proclaim myself inspired it is because they were inspired and I believe I know them so well. I go on smugly riding between the hot rays of Pingtung sunshine, moving down an avenue of banana trees within my own imagination, singing with joy at what I've heard and every bit as pretentious as a cat dressed in a miniature three-piece suit.