BWR is all set up in jeans and a corset. We’re smoking a very long cigarette on an old yellow couch. It’s 2:27 AM. The mailman wanders in, looking for his lost shih-tzu. In the ensuing conversation, the life erotic, the life political, the life bound and unbound is glimpsed. The sharpened edges of systems cut the grasping fingers. This just might be a comedy. Or it might, after all, be a prophecy.
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