you can't handle the truthiness


Your fevered dream starts skipping from scene to scene.


A woman's story: "I called him my lover. He was tall and Iranian. The only English he knew was, 'I felt like seeing your face.' He worked in a sort of sexy profession, an architect or airline pilot or something. He kept fit. He barely ever spoke and his face was handsome. Sometimes I'd be out on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and wondering if today was the end of the world, and he'd show up at my apartment without warning. 'I felt like seeing your face.' We'd take a bath together and he'd go home the next morning."


A soldier's story: "They sent us up the wrong hill. They filled our guns with the wrong ammunition. They put us under the wrong general. They pointed our boats in one wrong direction and our planes in another wrong direction. Our flag was the wrong color. We attacked the wrong enemy from the wrong position. I was in the wrong place. It was the wrong time. You never hear the one that hits you. I leaked, I bubbled, I groaned, I faded. My country. My country. My country wasted me."


An investigator's story: "A solitary woman, an enigma and object of derision in the community, long rumored of being a wanton whore, falls dead at forty of a cerebral infarction. Her body is discovered and we're called in. In her closet we discover, wrapped in plastic, the desiccated remains of four stillborn babies. Her diary, which makes no mention of the children, is a bleak record of heartbreak and loneliness."