If the world is where we hide from ourselves, what do we do when the world is no longer accessible? We invent a false name, invent a destiny, purchase a firearm through the mail.

Only a catastrophe gets our attention. We want them, we depend on them. As long as they happen somewhere else.

In these night recitations we create a space between things as we felt them at the time and as we speak them now. This is the space reserved for irony, sympathy and fond amusement, the means by which we rescue ourselves from the past.

In a crisis the true facts are whatever other people say they are.

Mirrors and images. Or sex and love. These are two separate systems that we miserably try to link.

In our world we sleep and eat the image and pray to it and wear it too.

We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.