I watched a TLC documentary about Siamese twins who shared the same body yet had different heads. They walked the same path, quite literally, and yet they developed starkly different personalities -- something Freud would probably diagnose as a "narcissism of minor differences." I marveled at that story; and mostly likely from a juvenile hope that there is something within me that might be called a "heart" that can't be reduced to the spatial and temporal coordinates that I've occupied. This year I happen to live right where I lived two years prior, and I'm overwhelmed by a sensation of uncanniness, uneasiness (as if I've entered into an incestuous relationship with myself, and I'm transgressing boundaries that should remain otherwise apart), since I'm walking down the same street, to the same cafe, becoming reacquainted with the same familiar faces, and yet, I feel utterly beside myself, and in some masochistic way satisfied, that even if I've been battered and broken, there is catharsis in recognizing a remarkable self-transformation. What haunts me though, notwithstanding, is the way in which habit comes back to solidify character -- and I'm confronted with that in small ways: when I left my apartment today, I lit a cigarette, and five minutes later, I stomped it out directly aside a cigarette that I had stomped out just the day prior; the idea of a "deep inner life" is the last refuge I have against two-dimensionality -- which might just be diagnosed as "narcissism," without predication.