Thursday, November 20, 2014

who wants to be a millionaire

The narrative I crafted out of you. Oh God. You should hear it.

But I wanted you to remain alone forever. That would have proven to me that it was real. You. Alone. Forever.

Regis Philbin intones:

You have one lifeline remaining, would you like to phone a friend?

Nah, Regis. I'm good. What I'm gonna do Regis. Is. I'm gonna take a big mighty, informed by experience, guess. And then, after forever happens, the television feed cuts out, you and I both die, Regis, I'm gonna die again. Without the answer. But into something larger and whole and it will know that I spoke my form of the truth. That whole will recognize a liar's ceaseless attempt at truth. And for that, it will accept me.

And I could tell you what colorful outfits she wore like a crazed genius peacock on a myriad of occasions and I could tell you what each article of them looked like on the floor of a bedroom, a car, a park somewhere remote in the Santa Monica Mountains.

Regis.