Mania whispered in clipped speech that I was destined; a prophet getting downloads from the divine. Paranoia proposed I was persecuted; in danger of being crucified. Materialism implied I was merely the product of a causal chain traceable to the trajectory of particles a half-second after the big bang. That I was the output of an upbringing by the ambitious and loving, but traumatized and anxious, who were, to quote Philip Larkin, “fucked up in their turn by fools in old-style hats and coats.” Materialism summed me up as a biological machine—an addict compelled to numb the pain of unfulfilled potential and unmet expectations.