Writers spend their lives stepping into rabbit holes. Then we go falling, falling helplessly out of control for years, typing up scenes and chapters that flash by until we reach bottom. I once saw a guy come out of a bar, early in the day, shirt half-buttoned, and wondered if he lived there like a character in a Steely Dan song. In my imagination, I fell into his nightmare. Maybe he sleeps in a broom closet in the back. Fall a little farther.