Ghostwriting for a Crown Prince in Exile
I meant to end in triumph, flags waving, trumpets blaring, the masses applauding, that intended endgame. We were each the avatar for another, left-handed, tied and cryptic. Which is to say, I was juggling this way or that with the strange gig. We were interested—that lifestyle necessity where “strange” is good, right away, or at least often enough, and the only caveat is to stay true to the cause. Not a word was changed by my religion, though hours of research ensued and a period of fasting, which ended about all I knew. We tried halting words like ‘beloved’ and ‘take advantage’ and surmised that the constitution had been violated. It all stopped. I earned, I moved, I was a distant memory, for truly we were a subplot. There was never any conquering liberator, nor any cameras to track our every move.
disarrayed from Michael Janofsky in lareviewofbooks