"Nah, I think he went to school to be on they level, 'cause he tired of fucking all those women," she says loudly, and its unclear whether she's on the phone, or talking to herself, or what.
I pull out my notebook and pencil and prepare to record it all when I'm stopped by a thought: isn't it a kind of theft, this writing down the behavior of others, like I'm stealing their words and thoughts? Aren't I just a thief when I take them down, freezing them in electrons and ink, recording their faces, their mannerisms, their rages and joys?
I realize, though, that just as I see them, all of these eyes around me are seeing me, recording me, placing me in their memories and thoughts, and I resign myself to being a thief among thieves, and keep writing.
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One year ago: Not the Same
Two years ago: Comfort Food
Three years ago: The New Normal
Four years ago: Different Definitions of "Fun"
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