The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?
I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream