This blog, this aching nothing, black and sad -- dandruff on velvet. It is pathetic, really, sending one cri du coeur after another into this void where only the mortally wounded circle in the small hours, looking for a place to die.
Will she ever say she's sorry -- she who invited the worm into the fruit, the canker to the bloom?
I think soon I will erase this blog. It's too hysterical by half, and equally as maudlin. I'd profit more by writing chirpy ad copy for some sticky cellophaned sweets.
We hear only the words we say, we read only the words we write. This agony that summons forth these words? -- an apoplectic in dumbshow.
My teeth can always fit around the barrel, D---. A fitter kiss now than those I had from your lips. . .
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