She went from room to room, needing to find one of us who
could still give her what she wanted, fooled by our dressing up like David Bowie,
to think we all went any which way, telling me, ad later others, how being with
any one of us was the best of all possible worlds, like doing it with a girl,
only with something extra, she, the latest to follow the band, her place with a
Bowie poster on the walls of every room, she peeping into the dark where each
of us slept, whispering for each of us to come and play, Bowie music
reverberating from a remote room, spiders from mars, suffragette city, Ziggy
stardust, each of us, pumped up by the cocaine she provided us, and wondering
why we didn’t do it with each other as well as with her.
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