in an airport lounge in Bombay is excellent company - the absurdity of (or is it the great truth inherent in?) his adventures an excellent counterpoint for the trains of thought that run me back to another Bombay night like this when I set out to fulfill my own absurd version of the American Dream, again deduced mainly from books, even if they (e.g., Seth's "The Golden Gate") were less fantastical (or absurd?) than the tales of chivalry that infect Don Q's head.

Components of those dreams have come to pass (I am getting to travel, and pretend that I am expert in areas of abstruse business logic, i.e., common sense) but the dreams themselves, in all their fragmented and shattered glory, remain like the twirling windmills again which my addled head (and perhaps, heart) has to keep tilting against.