A tousled-headed man wandered into the horror section of the Tacoma Book Center with an armful of books and a chagrined look on his face. “Jeez,” he said, looking around the stacks, “another secret room? This place has so many corners, I keep getting lost.” His turn of phrase struck me as strangely poetic. So many corners. It’s the sort of vaguely surreal wording you might find in a Borges poem, or a Tom Waits song ­ – the sort of…