Time passes, coffee comes, and whiskey goes. On one of New York's myriad secret floors, you participate in an installation that operates out of a small office space. After signing in, you are invited into darkness. You climb in a carpeted cube with another bald man and a curly-haired blonde. They hook up with you in there (the woman tries to grope you, but you demur) and before the time in the cube is up you have smelled another man's semen. You write an e-mail down that a Dutch artiste has left in small, neat print upon a note placed by the elevator door. This could be the way out of the apartment you share with your best friend. You are still carrying a torch for his sister.