“He wanted to be committed,” an older lady beside me tells her friend. “Did you know that? Can you imagine?” Yes. And yes. (Self-Portrait at Level 9.5.) “I just don’t get it. His life doesn’t seem so bad,” the friend muses. I imagine all the portrait lamps craning to put a spotlight on me. I’d tap-dance for these ladies, singing like in the finale of All That Jazz: “That’s not! How it . . . wooooooorks!”

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