06 August 2012
“Of all the gin joints, right into mine.
Paris and all that, scenic drives. A flashback
like a nap in a bathtub. But now, me
in my dumb jacket. Her and her new hero.
Sam, in America right now, surely, millions
of people with smiles and asleep, surely.
This night Sam, this night, like a dim, fascist
stay of execution. I, I, I. Me, on a raft
on the desert, Sam, a Noah of the sand,
whisky my only memory of water.
Her presence in my memory, Sam, a distant
nude yodeling. Her absence all around me, Sam,
a baritone farting. If she, right this instant,
Sam, right now through that door, I, I, I.
Oh, hell. [Expletive] her.”
— Nicholas Moore, Casablanca