He dated a woman named Sara in May, three months before his death. Japanese dining, a performance of Twelfth Night. He would tell his dates about his work. Most of the details and implications would fly over their heads, or they’d think he was a dreamer, working on fictions, ideas. His last date challenged him, said that it was impossible for the U.S. government and corporations to be involved in a far-reaching conspiracy. He was paranoid, a lunatic.
Believe what you want, if it helps you sleep at night, he told her. The paranoid, as Burroughs said, is the man in possession of the facts.
I’m not an idiot, she told him, but I think you’re deranged. You look like a wild-eyed zealot when you talk about this.
We all gotta serve somebody, it might be the devil, it might be the Lord, as Dylan said, you got to believe in something, he said.
Though he was still friendly with most of his ex-girlfriends, he never talked to her again. Just as well—he was getting closer and closer. He didn’t need a doubter within his circle. Soon, he told himself, soon, things are going to change.
Even though he continued dating, many lonely days and nights followed. Out of the day and night / A joy has taken flight. No one to pull his heart from the fire when he died, keep it for her remaining days.
I’ll wash up to shore, once this is all said and done, I’ll be someone else.