This past Tuesday night I took a bunch of Vicodin and went to see Wrath of the Titans, partly because I had fallen down a flight of stairs a few days earlier and needed an escape, partly because I wanted to see if enough painkillers could make me feel like the titans were starring in a Sofia Coppola movie. I kept picturing a thousand-foot-high flame minotaur directing a gaze of numbed-out longing toward the space slightly left of a Cyclops, “Wind Cheetah” by T. Rex kaleidoscoping in the air. Chained to the chalky / chalice of night. I was intrigued by this possibility. My right arm was in a sling and was basically useless.