In which Marilyn, after several weeks in hiding, finally meets with The Controller in the back of a Buenos Aires taxi. The Controller is out of focus and Marilyn is far from happy. “I don’t know how long I can keep on doing this?”
The Controller is motionless and grim. “Keep doing what exactly?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
The Controller remains out of focus and refuses to offer her a way out. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about ducking the Apollonian gestapo. I’m talking about making nice with Dionysian assholes. I’m talking about running through the sewers of Vienna, following the neuron trail of Harry Lime and the Vril, and avoiding the wrath of the Mole Men and the lesbian advances of Spider Women who want to go out and die after they’ve had me. And living on gin and Nembutal, and…"
The Controller interrupts her. “You’ve always lived on gin and Nembutal.”
“That’s not the point.”
“So what is?”
“I never know if my destination is a womb or a tomb.”
“You’re just tired.”
“I’m tired in two hundred different realties.”