We---who no longer discern the implications of ideas; who, blind to where they pop and crack and come apart at aching joints, clothe ourselves in profundities and casuistries alike. Who, learning too much, find ourselves able to both experience art and engineer its likeness, yet are unable to create. Who have no time for living, having invented leisure solely to distract us from work, having invented first and foremost books. We---the conjurers of worlds, masters of the if and for and while, of more than just lexically possible worlds. Who defile our predecessors, alternately convoluting profundity into profanity or analyzing it into vapidity. We---who write to mystify---have fooled, foremost, ourselves.