And now I understand that truth casts a spell of its own, one I'm not sure of how to hold on to, though I'm desperate to try.

On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.

I've never done acid, finding it hard to go willingly to a place that could be frightening, hellish, and totally beyond my control. A place much like high school.

But what was the point of living so quietly you made no noise at all?

Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells 'em off for a coupla stones.

Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala," I say with an affected bow.

You must remember, my dear lady, the most important rule of any successful illusion: First, the people must want to believe in it.