Sublime

diaphanous,

Watson,

Paper. Pages and pages. I recognize it. The faint blue lines, the red margins. These pages are the same as those in my journal, in the book that I have been writing. And then I see my own handwriting and begin to understand. I have not read all of my story. There is more. Pages and pages more. I find my journal in my bag. I had not noticed before,

numbers referring to the same patient.

“I am investigating the Kennedy assassination.” “Are you an investigator now?” she asked with a broad smile. The last time we dined, my profession was a failed movie producer. “Not yet, but I am learning how.” “And how do you do that?” It was a question I had been wrestling with since I had begun my interviews. For my first interview, I prepared 10

Perhaps I was worried that she would be able to read its contents reflected in my face, and they would no longer be mine to own.

Voyage of the Beagle,