Jim, much like the narrator in *The Fall *by Camus, was in Amsterdam. He was coming back from Israel, and he figured he would visit Holland on the way back. He took a room in a small hotel, and, since it was late summer, took long walks. It was always foggy in Amsterdam, and the summer to him felt like a rainy fall rather than the languid heat of New Jersey in August. One morning, after drinking too much beer in a youth hostel, he awoke with the sick headache of the hung-over. He was still in bed when Alex rousted him to rent bicycles and see the countryside outside the city. He felt fevered and nauseaus and his truth and fiction were tangled, and although he had nothing to hide, really, he felt obliged to lie. You see, Jim just didn’t care. His lies led eventually to his truth, and this clear conclusion was like a beautiful twilight that enhances the ordinary. When he was in Africa, back in ’57, …. Jim stops this story abruptly, shamed by its abject insignificance.