I'm on the way to becoming the sexual desire for a horde of young, tragically-fashionable men and women. What can I say? All in a day's work. I'm what would happen if a train wrecked full of Italian fashion models and their luggage. Between the remains of passenger cars and around the mangled, steel skeleton of the cabin you'd see scores of $800 shoes, $400 scarves and $750 blouses strewn across the gravel embankment. In the midst of the carnage, you'd catch a glimpse of an arm draped across an upright suitcase. It'd be so perfect it's almost inhuman. The skin would look like porcelain, or a live-action da Vinci sketch. When you would carry on, you'd spend days recalling the scene, and it had somehow sunk in-and-around you. Flashbacks would slip between everything you did. You'd finish lunch and your attention would wander and you'd remember a pair of ripped panties draped across the fragment of a pelvis. After washing the dishes you'd catch a flash of one of one of their fashion model faces. Her hair would have been pasted to her cheek, and her eyes would've darted across the swarm of police officers at the crash. You'd pity her, if the whole situation wasn't so perfect. Beautiful people in tragedies are newly-opened pawnshops in the city of human experience. That train wreck would have seemed staged. For a second, you'd catch yourself looking for a camera crew, but the black smoke settling from the locomotive would have been too difficult to stage. It'd be an impossible facsimile, and that's my life. In a film, I'm the extra that outshines the lead. I'm the tragically weeping victim in the background of a war scene that seems too real to be believed. While the lead actress chokes through lines that seem misplaced and poorly delivered, my silent, tortured sobbing resonates like a far-off nuclear detonation. My effect is felt, rather than seen. Things are different with me there, and here.