For me the difference between how things are and how you imagine them to be has always been acute. Jorge Luis Borges tells the story of a man who also noticed this difference and tried to avoid his own death by imagining it before it was at hand. The possible success of this method appeals to me less than the conviction that the imagination orders the world: as if I could change the rhythm of the waves washing ashore simply by willing it. As if I could unknot the hair and the scarves and the time that held us together like a road.