And finally. This question. The mystery of whose story it will be, of who draws the curtain. Who is it that chooses our steps in a dance? Who drives us mad, flashes us with whips, crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? Who is it that tells all these things? After I got on the bus I slept with comforting dreams for the first time ever since I went to that Asylum. They were of Baby Doll, Blondie, Rocket, Amber, and my parents. But sometimes on a still night I hear that gun shot, that knife pulled from its sleeve, and that lobotomy needle.