Bernard Kulp bursts into his kitchen carrying a stack of manila envelopes. Over the next five hours he’ll repeatedly pull from these files and point to lengthy paragraphs that have been scanned and copied so many times that they look as if the ink has fallen out of the words. The first thing he says to me is, “Is this really you or is it your consciousness?” I don’t know how to respond so I pick up my water glass and I say, “Me?” I’ve never felt more insane. “I’m pretty sure myself and my consciousness are here together.” Kulp scowls at me and says, “We’ll see.” He fingers his folders for a moment before drumming his fingers on the table. “It’s not that I think everyone who projects their consciousness from another dimension is an evil pedophile or something, it’s just what my research shows.” Kulp raises his fist quickly until it’s parallel to my face, I flinch and he seems satisfied with this response. “That’s good,” he whispers to himself, “very good.”