I arrived home, took off my overcoat, tossed it on a chair. I noticed a small blue tag sewn into the lining: six yellow letters, each inside its own circle. I had owned the coat for well over a year, but I had never seen the tag. From where I was I could not make out the letters. Before leaning forward to examine them more closely, I stopped myself: what did I care what the tag said? Presumably it was nothing more than the brand name or style, information that did not interest me in the slightest. I was deflated that there was no cause to look, that the world is not such that the six letters might have been a secret message, heretofore hidden, now revealed for the undertaking of a grand adventure. In a more spontaneous realm of existence the letters might spell out a deep ontological truth—ALIENS or GODYES—or they could simply change every twenty four hours, imparting a random gift of knowledge pertinent to the day. I would wake up and check tag, gleaning that morning's declaration: MURDER, NORAIN, FORGIV.