people are truly a mystery. you can know someone for fifteen years. know every single available facet of their character. things they've said, things said about them, things said to them. things they did that they didn't know you'd ever know. you can parse their writing, their favorite poems, their favorite lyrics, and their family albums. you can look at hundreds upon hundreds of photographs and ask everyone you know their opinion of this person. these fragments are then compiled into a whole. these are the pieces that make all of us who we are to other people. and yet, what are these pieces really worth? you can know someone for fifteen years and you can do all of this and you can even write a book about the pieces of the someone you've known. and yet even then, after all of that, you're left staring at a stranger in a fur coat, thinking: jackie, what the hell?