This page, for instance, resides inside the previous one, as if in a nest. It is only accessible here. A lot of things work this way: easter eggs in video games; Russian nesting dolls; I'd argue our self (to use a fuzzy term), of feeling like we know who we are, contains our former selves, who we were, in fragments. These fragments can reappear, prompted by something as minor as a couple bars of a song you listened to at point X in your life, or the smell of a particularly beautiful vanilla. There are portions of other minds inside your mind, thoughts and quotes and ideas taken from somewhere that is only rarely obvious. Idea inside of idea. Essay inside of essay. The more you say inside the less it starts to mean, the more it acts as anaphora, a koan, a touchstone to return to, and, like, touch, before you go away again on one of your long trips to other countries where no one speaks your language. But still inside of each departure there is a trace of you, of where you're from, which cannot be erased. The I — even a fictional I like those we find in memoir — is a mine. The book, a mine. It's mine: I should know. This is the website for the book. Superimpose it on the book. Print it out and stuff it in. The book is a static artifact. The website, not so much. There's more here, new tunnels, new considerations, more thinking. Like your memory, this page might not be the same when you return. Start with the book. Enjoy this space while it remains this space. When you see a word adorned with a dagger (†) in the book, enter it in the box above.

Not every passageway leads somewhere. Use one of these as a starting point if you'd rather:

52: About; 55: Ander Monson; 56: Assembloir; 57: Ball; 59: Book; 61: City; 65: Dagger; 68: How-To; 70: Karaoke; 72: North; 74: Place; 79: Society; 80: Space; 83: Taste; 85: Website.