I would rather be the moon off your teeth along the stroke of midnight. The sun dappling onto the sidewalk. But none of this says I love you enough.
I have to stretch my arms out in an uncomfortable position behind my head to get into character for the sun. He thinks I am bluffing.
I have practiced my lines and cues, but I am a better moonglow, a better moonglow by far when I am careening by your mouth, and I tell him this, and I let him know a good director would indulge me, a great director would listen to me, and a genius would let me do it myself, let me see it and do it to the real you in the ultimate flesh, living flesh, and I don’t care if my arm falls asleep: I am not a human being anymore.