The cartoon boy, alone in his bedroom, was reading a paperback copy of Empire Star, by Samuel R. Delany -- a book I had read when I was fourteen -- in which our galaxy is delivered from the schemes of Prince Nactor by the young musician Comet Jo... or something like that. ("He had: a waist-length braid of blond hair; a body that was brown and slim like a cat's [...] grey eyes too small for his small, feral face; brass claws on his left hand with which he had killed...")

I let the tape run another five minutes. The cartoon boy had not yet turned a single page. Either he had encountered the most fascinating prose passage of his entire fourteen year old life, or, as the bulge under his zipper suggested, he chose to supplement Delany's text with certain episodes of his own imagining. He rubbed his fingertips back and forth back and forth across the book's cover. It was time to unravel that waist-length braid of blond hair.

I pressed STOP, then EJECT, and inserted the second cassette.

PLAY.