The rumors abounded.
Alli says “Your portfolio
is reeking.” He is spot-
ted by several civilians
on different dates skip-
ping about town at 3 in
the morning. He vows
to give up the pen, to
stop reading entirely.
There’s “nothing new
under the sun,” he pro-
nounces, as if afresh –
this, overheard by sev-
eral trusted sources in
various Sunset dives.
The boulevard is a
dry sponge. What a
pill this all must have
been to him: the head-
lines, the apostrophes,
the disavowals. The
city grew unsanitary
while he – I heard –
had grown fond of
welts. With what?
It’s how he took
them, you know?
He really took to
it, too. He buried
his entire wardrobe
at the compound. I
hear that it was quite
an extraordinary
ceremony.
