There is no applause as we kill a possibility on the phone, me among buildings, and she in the Arctic. I wanted to travel the world capturing the chrysallis of a girl transforming herself into a woman, from sensual thrill into a sexual weapon built to kill. But to kill who? Me, of course, as I watched her change, from the streets of Katmandu to the alleyways of Hollywood. Because how could I convey the joy of watching this animal change without falling in thrall myself? I hoped she would break my heart, shatter me to pieces, when the last day of this effort arrived, and she walked away from me and my cameras without a glance backward, into a future I predicted she would have, and instead . . . I am disappointed. Angry at her casual and lazy indifference to my grand schemes. Why did I bother? She never could put her head into this game of mine, because she's not interested in being anything but a girl, even if she liked the idea of the travel and the pictures and acting and glamour. It would be better, this sense of gloom I am under now, if there was pain I could admit instead of my annoyance. I'm just pissed off, my time wasted, and the movies and art I hoped would result seem like nothing more than silly shadows thrown by a young girl over the blueprints of a silly old fool, less the architect of beauty and drama than he thinks. And this is the worst pain of all, to know I have fooled myself, making silk out of leather, even if this is a common drama for men who would be artists. Early fools day.