They shuffle uncomfortably in a shared space, rub shoulders angrily, eye each other suspiciously, laugh, and look for the door. There is none. They are neither outside nor inside. Sometimes they clasp hands in recognition, and then begin to dispute. Each has a definition, each resists definition, each defines the other. Each is a node within a multi-dimensional network, one of uncountable nodes. From each node project threads which tangle with the threads of other nodes. Together they do not make a tapestry. No coherent picture emerges because there is no one who is not part of the network, there is no position from which to step back and take a look, no one sitting on the other end of Archimedes' lever. This is not chaos, this is not anarchy, this is not entropy, although it may be chaotic, anarchic, entropic. There is sense here, but not safe sense. Sense made here is limited, local, provisional, and always critical. Self-critical. That is sense within the postmodern moment. That is the postmodern.