Every once in a while someone asks ‘How are you?’ — and, staggered by the true implications of the question, I realize that I have not the slightest idea. I mean, really… ‘How’ is it that I am? How could it be that I still exist? Or ever did? How could such a question ever be answered in language, or in any other way than my physical, living presence? I am overwhelmed, and, generally, while I reel in awe of the possibilities, the interrogator either begins or continues to presume that I am experiencing a fugue or have gone insane. They are, in both cases, too timid in their suppositions.