I said I had been looking at the crack in these walls for months; there wasn't anything or anyone in the world I knew better. Maybe one time, way back, I had searched for a face in them, but the face I was looking for was a bright as the sun and the flame of desire--and it belonged to my mother, and even though I had search for it in vain, I could not emerge victorious, for she was in California, yearning for Vietnam, and not the woman I hear everytime I sit in that seat to hear a lecture on obscurity, wilfully executed in Finnegans Wake.