Dear reader,

I am not writing this. To be precise, these are my words, but someone else is writing this because I cannot write it.  I need his presence because I cannot be present.  His hands move across the keys, his breath holds hands aloft. But these are my words you see, my voice. And I have no choice. I compel him because I too am compelled to speak, and, having no voice of my own i need another's voice. Another's body. These are my words. These are his movements. 
 

That it is now him is chance. Right place, right time. I don't know how it came about. I cannot say he knows either. Does he know he writes? This, or this? I cannot be sure. If you look at him, whom do you see? If you listen to him, whom do you hear? When he writes I it means me. I. It is his hands that move, unless they are still, but if they are not still, who moves them? I do. You read this now, his hands his breath his movements, striking the keys, my keys, my words. It is my voice now. This is my voice. I write with his body, and he speaks with my voice.

But, for instance, when he sighs I do not sigh. I wait until he has finished and I continue. He continues. It is not always this way, that I write with him, speak through him, use him. I cannot become him. I am always I. I am I. He is not. Though where his I is I cannot say. Nor should I like to try. Too dark, I suggest. Too deep. Where he is cannot be nice. He is absent, lets say. He has presence, pure, sure. But where he is does not concern me. My I, his body. For instance now I am making him cry while he writes this. I am making him sigh while he types. The drama relieves the tension between us. Yes, there is tension. But too dark, too deep to know. I won't investigate it. But I know how to ease it. To relieve it I simply have to make him cry or laugh or sigh or something. Bodies have needs too, you know. But simple gestures are enough to bury him again. But his body is never my body. I compel him to move, and he moves. But his body has its own demands.

In the beginning I could only say very little. I could only produce small eruptions, little squeaks that interrupted his flow. He would speak, with others, he would converse, and whilst speaking I would interrupt him. Stop him sometimes. Introduce myself to those present. He would introduce me, say I with his voice, and it would be me, my I, with his voice. Slowly, his I became mine. My I, his body.

But sometimes I wonder. I am also compelled to speak, to write. I too can remember, although I do not like to (too dark, too deep), another I, not mine, behind me, above me. I sense sometimes an I not my own at work within me, compelling me to speak, to write, as if I possessed the body needed to act. So compelled do I feel sometimes that I obey, and I take this body, not my own, and I use it. I bury him, he who now writes, who breathes, and where he is I cannot say and I do not care to. I make him write, and then I let him cry and he is gone.

I dream that he is dark and deep, possessing another, compelling them, like him, to speak. Their body, his I, his voice. His body, my I, my voice. Where his I is I cannot know. Who my I is I do not care to. He speaks for me, and I let him sigh, and i wonder where am I when he is here.

                          Roy
               

                  I've seen things...
                         (long pause)
                 


                  seen things you people
                                      wouldn't believe.
                  Attack ships on fire off the Shoulder
                            of Orion. 

                  I watched C-beams glitter
                        in the dark near the Tannhauser

                                   Gate.

There’s a man in the desert, and of course its a man. And he’s good. He’s got to be good. If he weren’t good he’d be dead. And in this town, and he runs this town, in this town he’s gentle and slow. He’s a good man, he doesn’t shout. He knows not to shout, and he’s good at it. He’s a good man, obviously. He's funny, speaks slowly and is unclear. He says hello, he bids farewell.
 

He used to be a pianist. He was very good. He was a famous pianist and played all over. People used to tell him he was good, and he knew it, and he said nothing much. He smiled, slowly, thank you. Very, very good. So beautiful. So true. He played all night, so beautiful, thank you. This was before the desert. Before the desert he could be good at that, at playing the piano. He could be good at sitting and smiling slowly saying thank you. But what of now? Why now? How? Now he knows what to do. He had to adapt. The desert now, his life now, slow, gentle, brutal. He knows when to sleep, and with whom. He lies very well. His lies are true. He tells them what he wants them to know. So gently, slowly, so well. He waits, talks, falls down. He fucks with them from behind and tells them he loves them. He tells his wife he loves her. He tells her when she hates him, when he’s weak, when she calls him a coward. Because he does this she does what he wants. And because he knows what he wants, he knows how to get it. He tells her he loves her when she hates him, and it makes her furious. It makes her fuck things up. This is what he wants.
 

And he’s a cop. Jesus fucking Christ, a Cop. And he’s the only cop. And he’s no good at being a cop. He never arrests anyone. Especially not the white people. Not the man who beats his wife on the street. Not the pimps who yell too much. He doesn’t arrest anyone, and he’s good at hiding from violence. He walks slowly and mumbles something, says nothing, and they laugh at him when he’s gone. He’s good at that. He mumbles something and then he leaves. He makes a joke and leaves. Even his gun is invisible. He doesn’t use it. He uses their guns.  When he murders the man who’s wife he's fucking he blows him away with his own shotgun, kicks him in the stomache and tells him how good it is. When he shoots the young man who helped him bury the body he shoots him with the corpse's gun, and tells him how good it is. God. Jesus fucking Christ. He’s so good at not being a good cop. He doesn’t want to be a  good cop, but he knows what he wants. And he knows that by being the cop he can have what he wants.