The van's floor is done in a deep avacado shag pile that might be the 1970s original. It smells vaguely of stale cigarettes, but is otherwise neat an... clean. NASCAR Boy keeps a blanket, a couple of pillows, a roll of paper towels, and a washcloth always handy. I get the distinct impression I'm not his only fuck, but that's cool. He's always clean, presentable and prepared.I take off everything but my T-shirt, and NASCAR Boy starts to wiggle into position under me. "OOooh ... give me that. At length, I rememberedthat the boy was at least theoretically a separate person, and didn'thave access to my thoughts and memories, and therefore didn't know what Imeant about my brain."I don't organise my thoughts well anymore," I sought to explain. "I losethe thread of my thoughts, and I can't do anything complicated. I can'tunderstand architecture: it's just gone. All those exams I passed, andthe skills I learned: they're beyond my grasp, now. I haven't exactlyforgotten, but I'm incapable. More

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