by Ryan Griffith Jill Marv He worked the Genesis, the Starlite, the Mystic, spying through his porthole into the velveteen. We were just kids waiting below, supplicants praying to his altar of night. He was our projectionist. On screen he showed us men made of meat and light and desire, Dean and Brando, libidos slithering through our jeans. We studied the blades of their faces, the cock of their jaws, the ways they sharpened themselves against the dullness of the world. Somet