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  • Now that I’m traveling more, through strange cities, and unfriendly hotels, moving along without companions, I’ve stopped being myself all the time.

    I’d got tired of the same conversations every night, the summary of how I got here. The status of where I’m at. I would listen to myself reel off the facts, and couldn’t stand the drone of my voice.

    So I started to mix it up, adding details, events, people from my imagination, and soon I couldn’t hold it in. I couldn’t stop the flow.

    Then what happened: I’d look at people in streets, in cafes, on buses. A glimpse as they went past, and try to guess their stories. At first, to add to my night-time inventions, but then it became its own thing.

    I look at everyone and I want to know what it’s like. To be them. To be in everybody’s heads. I want to see their version of this world.

    Someone once told me, the first time they had sex, they thought that was a beautiful way of getting to know someone. And afterwards, before the second person, before the disappointment, they just wanted to go fuck every man in the world.

    That’s kind of how I feel. I look at people and I want to be them, to see how life feels for them. Every one of them. I want to be inside them and all over them and part of them. And every day I go out, every day I go out, the hunger gets worse.

    Watching people, guessing bits about them, I want what they have. Feeding on the streams of people that pass me, always new and shiny. Sometimes I am seized with a frustration…that I will never get close to that kid with the sharp cheekbones, that dark-eyed woman, the gentleman with the stoop. I do my best, but most remain unknown.

    And after the wondering what it’s like, after the stealing people’s stories, come the imitations. My own version. The dress-up.
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