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J.S. McInroy is a man who, as have the characters in his novels, has experienced a time of reckoning, and who has emerged from that neither particle nor wave, neither light nor darkness. He has no quest, no purpose; what he does have, however, is a semi-humorous urge to, by employing his own life as an instrument while not defining it as such, cast doubt upon Bob Dylan’s statement that “Some of us are prisoners. The rest of us are guards,” by minute by minute, nanosecond by nanosecond refusing to become imprisoned within his own identity as well as revolting against the notion that it is his bounden duty to stand watch over his sacred self.