i sat cross-legged and shoeless,

in a room full of doctors - but not the kind that help people.

we discussed the sunset moth, and the longer the night went on the more she looked like [her]. two thousand dollar tales of engine malfunction strewn amongst snippets of Kurosawa and Godard.

i ate pinto beans and cornbread, remembering my great-grandmother and discussing sign language with a beautiful woman whose island voice spoke Caribbean mysteries. jokes were made of auto-didacticism, and before the night was through i found myself texting Mardou, telling her that Woody Allen's diganosis was correct;

she is, in fact, Vicky Christina.