It’s the year 2003. You once lived on an island. Now, you spend your days in high-speed transit. You are a writer, but what does that mean? You’re on a search that has barely begun. You’re not just looking for information. You’re looking to understand… to know the truth. To tell the truth. At the age of 18, your great works are still ahead of you, at a distance yet unknown. But make no mistake: it’s happening. Every day your skills and knowledge seem to double or even triple, leaving your previous attempts at writing – at being alive – in the dust. The present moment envelops you. You will go where the people are. You will be where it’s all happening. You will find the kind of love worth writing about. And if you squint, you will see your future self: the one who has overcome all the fragmentary incoherence of youth. For all you know, that future is already upon you—if you can catch it. With destinations so lofty, you find it harder than ever to look back, into the sparkling abyss of childhood folly and shame. In order to advance, you must cast off these prototypical forms. And yet the past follows you, bedraggled, creeping and moaning from station to station.