We haunted foreign film festivals, viewed the works of Bresson ("Le Filou"), Carné, Eisenstein, Buñuel, Fritz Lang. She assigned me book... to read, and we discussed Goethe, Stendhal, and Balzac. We talked far into the night, and sometimes fell asleep in each other's arms, too fatigued to make love.And there were the long walks in Central Park, the picnics on the lawn by the statue of Sigismund Wasa, mounted, in full battle armor, with crossed swords over his head. "He was king of. Only if you can swear that you've got nothing more you'd like to confess." I paused again. “So... Do you? Is that all there is?” She slowly nodded, her eyes fixed to the floor, but staring into the nothingness of desperation. “Really? Is there nothing more you'd like to tell me?” She slowly shook her head no. “Look into my eyes, Lynne, and tell me there's nothing more you'd like to confess.” She tried to do as ordered, but failed: “There is... nothing...” she paused before she bursted out in. More

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