Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself

In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.