LOST IN AN OBSCURE WING OF THE BURROUGHS GALLERY (SCREENING NOSTALGIC VARIATIONS ON THE SMELL OF LEAVES BURNING, THE SOUND OF TRAIN WHISTLES IN THE DISTANCE, ETC.)
"Alone," she shrugged, "but I'm not a junkie. Not an addict." Not social... "Always alone. That's the point. Get it?" Hardly. She frowned, looked to the floor, and her eye twitched. "There was a lover..." (Most always is.) "I was young." So it was sexual... "Very. Intense." Another twitch. "That's the association, I guess. Eighteen years ago. Ever since then, I've been alone." She looked up, "That's the point. It takes me back to when I wasn't." Especially now, when the cold wind of fall... "Stirs up memories..." (Best forgotten.) "...of her." And the ephemeral warmth of junk. "In my veins."
