It is warm in the theatre. The chair is comfortable. The trailers ended and most of the films looked good. A Coca Cola ad begins playing, which is the second to last thing they show before the movie. On my way here I walked past a dead deer next to a train track, a dead cat next to a gutter, and a smashed lollipop on the street like a glittering Toynbee plaque. I finally got inside and sat down. I thought, I could die right here and be okay with it. Really be okay with it. The credits would roll, myself on top of them. The cast and crew—everyone I've ever met—push me up into the sky, off-screen, where I could be out of everyone's way.

There is nobody else in the auditorium except an old couple who have no idea what this film is going to be. I strive toward such unknowing. When I go to movies with people, they ask me what's happening. What did that mean? Why did they say that? I don't know. I don't want to know. I want it to be like when I was small. Every day a discovery. Every moment a revelation.

Nicole Kidman appears on screen. She tells us how horny she is for cinema. She sits down and the camera holds on a medium closeup, where you can't see her hands. She promises pleasures unheard of. The film begins.

But there are no discoveries. No revelations. I hate that I can guess what's going to happen in a film. It is a fast satisfaction that gives way to slow resignation. Like jerking off in the shower and suddenly realizing how cold the water has gotten. To figure out what's going to happen before it happens, not through clairvoyance but cognizance. Every love story has an ending nobody wants to think about. This has all happened before. It will happen again.

Even now, I wish I couldn't guess what you're thinking in this moment, but I can. If only you could surprise me—really surprise me—I would be your canary. I would do whatever you wanted. We could run headlong into an endless, tenebrous cave and I would believe it when you said we would be fine.