A place of a king of quiet villainy and secret lust. A place where the dirty dreams of every twelve-year-old man-child were visible on the bus station’s bathroom walls in hand-scrawled tattoos of ladies with oversized breasts and inappropriate female genitalia, inaccurately portrayed as a singularly dangerous triangle of doom. Those kinds of drawings set me up for a world of confusion.

It is no parlor trick: There is a skull and, in the dark, it is glowing. Somehow it is now floating above us all. Listen: The skull is speaking. It is saying your name. It knows about you and your favorite flower and all about your tenth birthday. But it does not matter. You are not convinced. For some reason, you are still full of doubt. You stare into the dark, looking for wires. Grasping for strings, you hold your hands out.

As a boy, all I ever wanted was this: a
life dedicated to art; every idea, every breath an artistic gesture. And here is this girl before me,
blowing on her hands to keep warm. And why am I so worried it’s not going to last?

wondered about what he said and then thought hard. I could
never be a dick, not to Gretchen anyway, so I guess I was doomed; doomed to go for this girl that
didn’t go for me. But that was OK as I long as I did everything I could.

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