Here in my secret room I kept the relics of so many dead worlds. Of course dead worlds are all around us. They’re just so much a part of our lives that we stop thinking about it. In London, five-hundred-year-old buildings snuggle next to glass columns built yesterday. Asphalt poured in nineteen-fifty is worn down by the wheels of a thousand rigs never dreamed of until five years ago. And the sweetmeats dance in nightclubs with rags on their backs sewn in sweatshops during the eighties. But that was just a momentary madness. A fad. A passing whimsy of fashion.