into the code of HTML itself. The book investigates and chips away at the stability of I, as the website expands and conflicts with the book in hopefully interesting ways.

I'm drawn to writing because I love play. I'm drawn to it because I love the limitless. I'm drawn to writing because I love my limits. It seems that my faults, digested, compensated for, have become my style. I'm drawn to nonfiction because its spaces are more obviously limitless—anything could happen there. And I'm drawn to the essay because in a world of GPS the interiors of our heads are the most accessible infinities around.

Colleagues in the Cognitive Science department at the university where I teach are trying to track and crack the skull in a variety of interesting ways: MRIs, neural mapping, complex digital models. But the essay deserves consideration too. It is a cheap, easily-accessible, and rather wonderful technology for thinking. For representing thought. For suggesting or inspiring our own. When we read an essay we are playing the author's game—I mean brain. We are literally in their synaptical groove, the trenches of their sentences. We run their software on our mainframe. It doesn't always work. Maybe it's glitchy because of translation or old dictionary files, or our own internal resistance essaying away in response. But a surprising number of these old machines stay compatible with our new head-tech. That's the good thing about language. About books. Essays. They're slow and slow to be obscured. They don't date so fast. We can still read Montaigne and have him course through our veins—I mean brains.