I woke up and looked around me for an event that had not been processed into news, an achievement that had not been institutionalised, a practice that had not been professionalised, a theory that had not yet been compactly and intricately exaggerated into an ideology. I began my search, but everywhere I looked I was given an X for a U. I asked for a book: I asked for a book and was given a work I needed a method and was taught a methodology I sought an object and was offered a design I wanted a country and found myself in a state I desired a woman but was told these were matters of my libido. Politics and sex, commerce and information, all seemed increasingly sublime and cultural, imbued with value, elevated to symbol. The objects I encountered existed only as vehicles of the meaning they were meant to convey. Wherever I went, I always encountered something that was tailor-made for me in advance something that was adapted to my perception and my expectations. And then I felt this strange discomfort, like the nausea caused by a runny food, a baby's porridge running lukewarm and grainy down our gullet. A discomfort that was mixed with a longing for products of another time, those that still had to be chewed and digested.