as though it is my birthday. & this is my gift: telling myself what I was never told: suppose in one part of your (still 3-hr-long) biopic it is your 88th birthday. All day you exclaim, I’m 88! At your party—I’m 88! to every friend & fellow 80-something silly faggot. You are wearing someone’s worst nightmare & you are who wore it best. & then the cake? Not 88 candles, but still a ridiculous number. Flames & flames. Suppose you blow them out, wishing for more blazing, more you. Suppose you know already: there will be.
