As the weeklong seige of my city wore on, I gradually acquired a mystical knowledge of how the whole thing works. I close my eyes, and the image becomes clear to me: Somewhere, deep in the FleetCenter, a man sits, alone, in a dark room, vigourously masturbating. He's been at it all week. And through some cosmic mechanisms that I am not yet able to articulate, he's making it all happen. The stories about how there are no stories. The protesters protesting that there are no other protesters. Reporters reporting on other reporters. Reporters reporting on bloggers. Bloggers blogging on reporters. Bloggers blogging on bloggers. Bloggers blogging on reporters reporting on bloggers. Protesters protesting other protesters. Protesters protesting on the protesting conditions. Reporters reporting on protesters protesting the protesting conditions. Protesters protesting reporters reporting on protesters. And on he wanks. He is the Prime Wanker, the cause of all subsequent wanking. Wanking wanking itself. Thank God it's over. He must be exhausted.