There is a part of my being that roots for him every night. With bated breath, I join the throngs, eager to witness history in the making. Like horny high school sweethearts, we wonder if tonight be the night. But with the storm clouds of allegations swirling around his stature, he stands at the brink of greatness and infamy. Still, it would be sweet poetic justice if he’s forever stuck at 754. No asterisk needed, just another footnote in the long history of the sport.

I’m now sleepwalking the silent streets, chemically intoxicated, but like an unfazed Horatio Caine, I survey the scene: larger-than-life creatures preen and prune themselves, birds of paradise caught in an urban jungle. Hiding behind vapid masks and fumes of machismo, they challenge me to refute their maxim: I think that I am, therefore I am.

The ghost of Descartes is gagging, but the words of Wilber peer through the ether. Our identity is constructed from four distinct and fundamental perspectives: interior, exterior, collective, individual. We are the product a bubbling mixture of images – either forced upon or gladly swallowed. We are a projecting species, not unlike Arctor’s scramble suit.

Look in the mirror – do you recognize who you see? I touch the image before my eyes and flinch. Daltrey’s primitive howl shatters my visage, and I won’t be fooled again.