My name is Patrick Beatman. I am
twenty-six years old. I live in the American Garden Buildings on West Twenty-First Street, on the eleventh floor, Com Truise lives in the penthouse.
There is an idea of a Patrick Beatman, some
kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping you and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there....