DRIFT. Laney is in drift. That is how he does it. It is a matter, he knows, of letting go. He admits the random. The danger of admitting the random is that the random may admit the Hole. The Hole is that which Laney’s being is constructed around. The Hole is absence at the fundamental core. The Hole is that into which he has always stuffed things: drugs, career, women, information. Mainly—lately—information. Information. This flow. This . . . corrosion. Drift. ONCE, BEFORE HE’D come to Tokyo, Laney woke in the bedroom of his suite in the Chateau. It was dark, only a shush of tires up from
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