I read the words of Ana, Natalie, Sheila,
. . . and I think, “I used to feel that deeply.”
I realize what a fraud I am. I need piss to drip down on to this empty head. Pain or pleasure. Some fucking miracle – or some fuckin’ – breaking my perfectly meaningless crib into seven hundred splinters.
If I could reach back in time to the instant I ran away I’d drive this big machine in reverse at 135 mph.
I would if I could. If I could find the gearshift in this darkness.
The last thing I deserve is the one thing I need.
Thoughts are lesser reasons. Still, I stay clear of great writers when possible.