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Cinema Verité I’d live a lie and tell it too. This one for you, this for the girl next door in a film about a film and a starlet so hayseed she could change the world. Her desperation and dye job, my derby and debonair, my dimestore dalliance. Limelight stand-in for moonlight, I want you MaryJane and pigtails, I call you Peaches. Long arm of snow-white. Warm-blooded wonderland. I call you Iowa or Idaho, farm girl and manqué. Manqué mostly: that potential rendezvous you’ve known all your life, my interlocutor — my girl is yours, at the center of intrigue. Authorities raising alarms, authorities giving chase into dimly lit mansions of swank smoke rings. A sleuth in the shadows, a lambing in the corner of every illicit room and everything you don’t say can be used against you in a catty gossip column. It’s a highball charade, a swimming pool the size of in the swim of things. As in the beginning, the body filmed from below, pressing into the sky, as in the end, coppers gathered around the kid on the way up, the author on the way down, embracing the surface. 7 ...

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