In which our hero is checked on by her sidekick, Stateside.
This was so good it’s hard for me to look directly at it. I’ve had an intense last couple of days — just a crazy pileup of magnificent stimuli, diverse, just end-to-end-to-end — and it’s ongoing — I just got to Casablanca after all day on a bus to a train and this couple that’s running a school for refugees given to them by the king’s late father has picked me up on a rattly motorbike and driven me through the slums of the city to their magnificent crumbling flat and plied me with hashish and local wine and already said like six things that are exactly what I knew only to know I couldn’t imagine, could only hope would be something for the VS. SOCIETY story in my meta narrative screenplay about using narrative in a conflict with conflict, and it’s all too much, or almost, and I excused myself to call my mom, just to take a break from the new and to tell someone about Madeleine’s photographs from their traditional Berber wedding, but she isn’t answering, so now I am hiding in my room, telling my friend Darwin that I am doing great, too great, actually inhabiting the loneliness that I guess also attends the achievement of maximum velocity, if that’s a thing.
Later, when I am not stoned and feel like it, I’ll tell you all about showing your recentmost message last night — god, was it only last night, before dinner? I’ve lived so many lives since then — to someone I had a surprising and magical intersection with
p.s. I think I meant terminal velocity