I stand on the ledge. Outside your bedroom, just a little drunk, plastered, I am the insect on your windshield. You have had a long night of driving, Aren't you exhausted? I am drawn by the light--dim though it is--that slips through the gap in the curtains. Still here, my dead eyes are pressed against the window. If you were ever aware of me, you have forgotten. At the next station, the hunky gasoline attendant with the future in his pants will spray the corpse of me and squeegee me out of memory.
But before I am forgotten...
Let me remind you that curiosity looks a lot like jealousy and jealousy is sometimes confused with love. Neither correlation could be termed an epiphany, but don't these little insights offer something to balance on as I cling--a trembling Spiderman--to the turret's slippery glass? I am no daredevil, but I would suspend myself more precariously than this for any perspective on who you are. I would brave anything to know you.
"Again,"
I want to say, but I know these clones, these half-ass replicants, have done a disservice to you. They are profoundly incomplete, pieces pasted sloppily, a robot from the year zero.
---
Twenty questions. I imagine myself granted an interview. The scoop of my career. But where do I begin? How do I suture truth after all of the rumors, the smears, the lies? Who are you? Its funny to think of the million dishonest answers to such a question. (Of course there are just as many truthful responses, though you will have none of them.) You live in a cyclone of media attention, paparazzi and glare. You have to be careful what I might see of you. And I have to be careful with what I make of what I see.
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