"I've been playing dumb so long now, even I'm not sure it's an act," I say.
"You're just like her," he says.
head jerks back to linear time. oh yeah, conversation.
He was telling me I'm just like Margot Tenenbaum, I was saying that I've been hearing that since the damn movie came out. "I've got this this fetish for secrets," trying to explain. He interjects, "That was the first thing you ever said to me: 'Wanna make a secret together?'"
"Was it? That does sound like me."
I only remember the part where I unexpectedly found him at a party, snuck up walking his stride along his side and said in a soft voice, "and there you were, thinking you were never going to see me again," like a proper sociopathic narrator.
Also the dark closet in the warehouse gallery of a high quality foundation and was it a closet or just something cloaked in the shape of a shoebox? Only lighter light to blow bumps. Making out in the black black dark, how do I remember that part?
Five minutes later in a circle of friends on the ground. We're in the greatest city in the world but it all seems rather primitive. Little gathering of drug-hoarding trolls telling tales tall, by the fire-lit wicks of their cigarettes.
in my studio is an antique metal medicine cabinet that i bought at a salvation army on flatbush avenue. there's a large ring of keys inside. they all fit in doors to apartments and lofts all over new york and its burroughs. i don't even know which fits where. i take them out to gaze upon while I think these words: