(I finally started reading Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son, so this morning's work seemed to make more sense.)
You are taking a random walk through our online cemetery.
It’s pronounced bro.
I gathered it from her bit‑by‑bit, piece‑by‑piece.
Did she have a theme in her photography?
She had a high tolerance to drugs like morphine.
The pictures that are posted, a lot of naked women, those were all at your studio?
No water after midnight.
How she felt going through this ordeal.
She could shoot and would shoot anything. She enjoyed shooting people more than anything.
She was awake during the entire procedure.
Did she have any type of bondage issues with her photography? Did she like shooting bondage‑type photographs?
She was aware.
Chemo decimated her skin.
She was left with jangled nerves.
Opiates had no effect.
She had two red dots on each hip bone.
She did not feel good that day.
She didn't dislike it. She would shoot whatever she was asked to or could.
It felt as if something was trying to tear its way out of her abdomen.
Was she able to make a living?
What was puddling up under her was probably a cold sweat.
Something bad going on, either cancer or a tumor.
At various times.
Travel to New Orleans or to visit friends in Michigan on occasion.
OxyContin, I believe.
A history of depressive disorder? Anxiety? Panic attacks?
Eight to ten beers over a 10 to 12‑hour period.
In the morning?
No. Well, yes.
A 12-pack of Heineken?
Bubble-gum-flavored Xanax, yes.
Regardless, she stole it anyway.
Issues with anger?
Prozac, Paxil, Ativan.
Is this a good place to stop?
We didn't think she was going to die.