I like museums. I love museums. But I can’t find the answers in a museum. My answers are somewhere else. Maybe in Bruce. Maybe in ten-year-old Sarah. Maybe just inside myself because I’m the only one who knows all the details of me. But there’s a thin membrane between me and myself, too. It’s like I’m a little me inside the big me and I’m holding an umbrella and the rain is bullshit and I am the rain and I am the bullshit.
