Is it what Conrad meant by the shadow line—the greasy smudge separating the waters of Lake Michigan from the mood indigo sky? The Große Fuge’s thirty-six chambers divide in my ears and partition my skull. A good day, a bright day, almost a vacation—then the curtain comes down and I have to get away from myself. Here I am again in the freshwater night. Cradling my rectangular glow, my 21st-century candlestick, closer to my chest, reaching for the way things used to be. “Remember lingerie?” Bruce Sence sighs in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (1985). See you around, Max. Raggedy man.