Monday

It was rare for her to be alone. Always someone to hold her hand, to remind her and everyone that she was.

John Malkovich had been someone. He had mis-en-scene a play introducing an actress with the most beautiful breasts, and he had asked to stand on the edge of the stage, in silence, for a portion of eternity.

But the people living in the head of Malkovich made him who he was. People who loved, detested and lived, people with projects, and this made undertakings complex for John. Except when his head was inhabited by John Malkovich alone. At such times he kept to himself. As if being were sufficient.

Now her head was empty. Happy days.

She could fill it with whatever, whoever she wanted. Those who knew when it was time to leave, people who never stole anything - stealing from someone who'd let you be in their head was wrong - people who knew solitude. Ideally, they would be alone together like Chet Baker in 1959.