Los Angeles, the city of angels, is empty of people. Every point of light is a moment of virtual access, the twinkling of connection, a portal into the world of the artificial self, the only place we truly dwell, where we can be ourselves by not being ourselves, where we conquer by dividing our personhood into personae, avatars of our fantasies, or who we wish we were, or — more tellingly — of who we wished others wished we were.