Magalee De Bellefeuille. A woman others dressed in dreams, photographed, painted, prayed to, lusted after, called whore and fell in love with. She’ll rip your heart out, man! An unwelcome caveat at that time, humbling then, humbling now. And yet, how easily with the winking of an eye or the pulling of a leg could she attribute to me the ego of a fool. I prefer to dwell on the adulation.
Manolis, blue smoke above his head: “I tell you what I think, Steven. You have made of Magalee an ikon, and desire only to pray.”