I am diaphilactic. I am sophorus, I am hollow and dripping, I am an empty shell of a person filled disenuous philanthropy, and it’s bleeding out of my throat, my eyes, ears and teeth. I am not porous, and I hold your ideas as tightly as I hold on to the computer chips we ate last week. I claim them as my own, sometimes, when I think I can get away with it, and sometimes, I can, even though your thoughts have become as widespread as my emotions – they wrap around North America and spiral into the south Pacific, lost in waves until they wash up on the shore of South Korea, where they will help no one.