Jack says, “After a while you start drawing conclusions, finding connections in the strangest places, seeing one thing as another, knowing you’ve had that conversation, understand what someone’s like from a sentence, and skin’s a simple cover and clothes dress you up, but ultimately, it’s easy to figure out everybody and, eventually, you can’t tell the difference.”
I ask, “So me. You could replace me? It’d be a simple process to put me down and pick up another?”
“Not exactly,” Jack replies. “I just get this feeling lately, watching films based on historical fiction, and I can’t tell the difference, genuinely, don’t know which ones are based on fact and which ones are made up and I wonder if it matters or if ultimately, everything’s someone’s imagination, even this moment, is like another person’s dream or a line in a book or a lyric or an example of how people aren’t always what you imagine.”
But Jack’s exactly who I pictured, from the shade of his hair to the cracks in his soles. He’s exactly the person I picked before I was old enough to speak, before I knew the point to any of this, before I wondered if there was one.