Sometimes you just really want to end up becoming something else, like the feeling of reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle alone in a room for three; or become one of those dogs available for STUD SERVICE; or work for a really hideous company selling travel packages online, the captions devoid of human emotion, of excitement at what lies ahead; or feel in a click of a remote that smug feeling of someone who have just met an important person; or lead a life that forbids dreaming about that big corporate boss up there, prodding you to work; or the feeling of having found a wonderful Japanese proverb: sumeba miyako; or the feeling of wind whipping on your face at 4:30 AM on a provincial bus speeding its way past drowsy cars at SLEX, earphones plugged, the lyrics: "These are The Ends"; or expect the visit from a person you've been waiting for seven years, and the proud feeling of having cried long and hard that the only thing you think of is a good summer day; or smelling the beef steak my mother cooked the weekend before she left for New York, which lasted until Wednesday, on a tin casserole; or morph and become that Facebook friend who's just dense enough to post about Ebola and how overrated it is; or the lucky man who stared at a Magritte painting long enough.