I often wonder these days--when looking in the window of a record store, or when passing a jumbly newsstand--if I would respond if someone were to call out my name: if I would involuntarily whip toward the sound of self, or even feel the old esophageal shimmy of potential recognition; I doubt it: I feel as if that mode of particularity is lapsing away (and, accordingly, I can hardly care); but it doesn't stop there: I can barely align myself with generics any longer: it's difficult to feel like a runaway when no one has noticed that you're gone; being other-directed becomes problematic in the realm of no faces. . .

from the lost scrapbook, by evan dara.