Interview
By sweetbrother
No, there will be no photos; put those cameras away. Your film will not capture me because I am made of shadows. So many questions! Where do I come from? From everywhere and nowhere and from the source of your wildest nightmares. Family? My father was a stone lion guarding the New York Public Library, my mother was a voluptuous jungle blossom, my sister, a blast of arctic wind who will freeze your breath as soon as you exhale; my daughter is a still, cool morning in a rainforest. Don't ask about my past; background checks reveal that I'm a jazz tune played by Monk on Fifty-Second Street on a sticky summer night in 1956; when his last chord faded into the air, then I died. Where do I live? In rich black soil beneath your feet, in flames captured in a barrel to warm down broken-down men passing bottles of Thunderbird. Who am I? All you must know is that I am not you (please thank your God) I am made of the shadows that you, as a child, thought were monsters. Written November 8th, 2001 © on Nov 08 2001 03:15 AM PST 0 • 10
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"No,..."