"What did you say about the book, Mr Travis?" comes out as an echo in between glimpses of Armand in the man's house in Tampa, walking back and forth in front of him, absently going through his cupboards and judging his coffee mugs with political slogans on them. Out loud, from the mortal, and psychic, inside his head.
"I said it was probably half-fake," he begins to recite. "The vampire shit, that's fake, but the gay shit, that's all real, all Daniel Molloy because he's. Please, man, it's in my head, I can't get it out of my FUCKING HEAD—"
switching so quick. grabbed again. carrying on,
"—Everybody knows Molloy was a hooker. He wrote the AIDS book out of some oppression Olympics guilt that he didn't catch it. I said. I said. I want to go home. I said of course the fantasy guy's black. Please. You could tell him to stop, right? That's what he said."
no subject
"What did you say about the book, Mr Travis?" comes out as an echo in between glimpses of Armand in the man's house in Tampa, walking back and forth in front of him, absently going through his cupboards and judging his coffee mugs with political slogans on them. Out loud, from the mortal, and psychic, inside his head.
"I said it was probably half-fake," he begins to recite. "The vampire shit, that's fake, but the gay shit, that's all real, all Daniel Molloy because he's. Please, man, it's in my head, I can't get it out of my FUCKING HEAD—"
switching so quick. grabbed again. carrying on,
"—Everybody knows Molloy was a hooker. He wrote the AIDS book out of some oppression Olympics guilt that he didn't catch it. I said. I said. I want to go home. I said of course the fantasy guy's black. Please. You could tell him to stop, right? That's what he said."