In my imaginary world I am holding the askos that the Getty has to send back to Italy in my hand, stroking it, I am at the Lynda Benglis and Louise Bourgeois show, feeling it, I am in Edinburgh participating in that play that you act in, on instructions fed to you through your headphones. I once cracked open a Walter Benjamin book and read ten pages in it (I meant to read more, I wanted to read more! but I didn’t). I’m not bragging when I say I have no idea what Benjamin wrote, except I remember a story he said he had read once, himself: the story of a man who goes into a book store and sees the titles of all the books he can’t buy, and so sets about writing books to go with the titles he can’t afford.