Once upon a time, in a city of musk and cinnamon towers, there lived a boy who didn't want to grow up. He was happy in his room, listening to his favourite music, reading good-smelling books or staring into a distance further than you would ever wish to see. Every now and again, after siesta and a cup of Kopi Luwak, when the searing heat of the sun had abated a little, he would slip out and pass the time of day with the girls of the city - those of pneumatic leg and silicone symmetry. 'I am a structure without foundations', he would often tell them, before continuing upon his ingenuous way - banana in hand - the late afternoon breeze whispering across his brow. For there is nothing more permanent than the things we call temporary.