It was one of the rare moments in which the shape of my life, normally hazy, took on a bright outline. There are so few things I love to do more than coughing up money for a cheap hotel, sleeping there alone, and waking up in the morning with a sight to see: a boy in pearls and high-waisted pants, for example, plus fifteen thousand people who have grounded themselves the same way I have, using someone else’s gestures and vocal tics to mark time, to help them remember, and to return them over and over to the question of who they are.
