Astrud Gilberto sang an old bossa nova song. “Take me to Aruanda,” she sang. I closed my eyes, and the clatter of the cups and saucers sounded like the roar of a far-off sea. Aruanda—what’s it like there?

“Whether or not the person I think of as me undergoes any essential changes, the…”

“I mean, the ones on trial are not like me in any way: they're a different kind …”

“This layers, like some kind of transparent sponge kind of thing, stands there b…”

“Where I went in my travels, it's impossible for me to recall. I remember the si…”