You are not. Meaning is being made in the saccades and the interstitial spaces you ignore. When the miracles begin, you will declare that the world has taken a great leap forward, and—wearing the amazed expression of a pantomime clown—you will quote Proust as tomorrow’s children make jokes that derive their humour from puns invoking senses you do not have. You will wear your bewilderment first as modish nostalgia and then as politically charged performance art, and finally as a proud, doomed ethical position whose idiot gravity you cannot escape. You will go to your grave protesting that everyone else has misunderstood. Oh, bravo. Bravo.