The thing that is so great about literature of the paranoid — the Time out of Joints and Crying of Lot 49s of the world — is the way that things can assume a sense of weight and meaning totally out of character with their surface value. A misspelled postage cancellation or scrap of Life magazine showing Marilyn Monroe can become something of world-shattering relevance. Paul DiFilippo‘s best story, I think, concerns communications through subway sign and Police song, and you can’t get less important than that. On the way home, I was overcome by a sense of portent (aided, no doubt, by the tape of the Clint Mansell soundtrack to Requiem for a Dream on my car stereo). There was a train halted on an overpass, and the word "Uniglory" stood out as if spotlit. I have no idea if Uniglory is this Asian shipping company, but the railcar seemed to bear an secretive and slightly ominous message. As I continued on my way, the Kronos Quartet faded out. The red Jag behind me passed me, only to pull all the way off the road; its driver sat there, head tipped back and looking for all the world like he was waiting for an impromptu meeting or for the bomb in his trunk to detonate. Signs and portents are everywhere. I turned off the highway and headed home, thinking about how much I like music that makes me feel like I’m in a movie. None