Many many people sneaking strange glances at me on the street and the subway, in bookstores and cafes. Brief visual interactions that appear neither appreciative nor critical. Recognition, mostly, with a tinge of either embarrassment or bemusement, as though they'd all seen me in some seedy internet sex-tape or silly YouTube video. Oh how I hope it is the latter. Or perhaps, much better, we're all simply feeling observant and brave, noticing each other and interested enough to stare a little. I don't mind. I do it all the time. Bright pink boat shoes and slim progress into 2666. Thick-knit rust-coloured scarf and an equally thick, spring-yellow copy of something published by Gotham Writers Workshop; extra cilantro. Grey-sweatshirt genius slipping out a SoHo street door. Still, I feel I am being watched. Like that guy whose life turns out to be a reality TV show, and his bright blue skies a well-painted backdrop. Hope these blossoms I've been looking up at aren't made of styrofoam.
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