Saturday, October 9, 2010
In a dark motel room in a God-forsaken strip of America a man who’s not Casolaro sits. The monster has chased him here. The stunning coincidences, the phone calls, the look-alikes, the poorly lit meeting places, the scribbled notes under doors. The man is unfamiliar with Casolaro but he’s hit upon a similar line of thought, similar obsessions, a similar distrust of the narrative that’s been feed to him. There’s nothing but to sit there, still, listening to the sounds of footsteps and parking lot cars and doors opening and closing and waiting for when the door opens and light bursts through and destroys him.