The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
May 1, 2005


I would have cursed Manolo for bringing everything in the house to a standstill for his handshadow show. Well, that was before I spent twenty minutes on a canvas chair in front of Manolo's puppet stage watching a touching tale of Prohibition-era brotherhood. Who knew how touching the silhouettes of two forty-year old hands could say so much? Not I. I am in a funereal mood, Diary, because word came to me today that a tea buyer I'd used off and on for years died last week. I will admit only to you that I cannot even remember his name. I know he was born and died in his native Canton province, although I think they changed its name of the prefecture. Provinces and prefectures. It sounds like it should be a novel. Anyway, diary, Culver City needs me. Or so I like to think.

[signed] Nick

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