Goodness. A love triangle with the edges not connecting--or only occasionally connecting, like some rapidly changing 3-D screensaver. We (Fitz and Sterling) love TRUE and TRUE loves no one. OK, scratch that--she loves Klaus Kinski, and anyone who looks vaguely like him, which on certain days includes Yours Truly.

Who do you think gave me the name, "Fitzcarraldo" after all?

The dreaming builider of the opera house in the jungle. That's what she wants me to be. Well, love, the closest I come is the white linen suit. And it's too cold to wear that now.

Love all your talk about no longer messing with shit, Sterling. First of all, on a literal level, you sounded high as a kite, so I'd watch the grandstanding, love. Second, on a the level of the mathematics of the graphs of desire, I can't think of anyone who's trying harder to stuff her "product" back up her lily white bootie hole than you. And that added bit about your poor lost fingers. You're so proud to be disenchanted by your dismemberment until it's time to rake in the sympathy vote. God, you really make me sick sometimes.

Hey TRUE, I hope you have fun with your little buddy, Will. Oh, our faithful leader! We'll sit tight and await with bated breath the next installation of your most excellant adventure. Give me a break. So you and your German drug dealer pals ran over the poor idiot's bike and you've been indebted to him ever since. And he runs his own software company out of the second floor of some grand renovated mansion in the middle of Minneapolis. Great. Wonderful. I hope you figure out your life skating on one of those god damn lakes. Isn't that what everyone needs every once and a while? A lake to skate a figure eight upon? I know that's worth the last of my poor dead grandmother's money.


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