Vincent Gallo

“I wouldn’t buy your soul,” Jack says, “try to save it or make you sit through a Matt Damon movie,” like that might be a chore.

“What if it was cheap?” I ask and Jack says, “That’s not the point. I mean I’ll never own you.” I tell him he’s right, that’s true, that I’ll cling to technicalities like my name, profession, by not wearing white. But I know it’s a trade, still, with its own repercussions.

“What do you think of Ben Affleck?” I ask, and there’s a pause; a soul or deflated balloon that leaves spit on your hands.