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10.01.00, 12:14 a.m.

Tait is convinced that I have copycats all over. An intellectual property lawyer, it's true that he seems to find things I've written --a line or two from an earlier internet incarnation, the way an essay might be structured and versed-- reproduced elsewhere with alarming regularity. Dat and I have had to send threats (me) and diplomatic inquiries (Dat) to a number of imitators and plagiarists. Meanwhile Tait sends me pages torn from an art magazine featuring a Japanese artist who, he claims (jokingly), is adopting my mode and method. Slathered in body glitter, a wig and shiny silver PVC, she occupies public space in ways that disrupts the flow of commerce, slows traffic and makes moments moments. Dark-suited men are arrested by the robot girl in their midst. (Although he forgets I don't do body glitter anymore -- so 1996.) Tait is disappointed I don't wear as much plastic anymore. (This is because we knew each other when we were dirty and shone not with metallic or coated fabrics, but grease built-up in shimmering layers like scales.) I used to want to attract attention but I'd rather slip in and out of crowds unnoticed, for now.