PARDON MY DEPRAVITY. I DIDN’T MEAN TO DISAPPEAR FOR SEVEN DAYS, I ONLY WANTED TO LIVE WILDLY AND DELICIOUSLY AS A WITCH OF THE WOOD. HERE, HAVE A PLUM I PLUCKED—WATCH AS IT WELDS TO YOUR CHEEK. I’M NOT INSANE BUT I’M NOT STABLE; I’M A THIRD, SECRET THING. I AM TIRED, BUT I HAVE GOALS. I AM ADDICTED TO ANYTHING THAT DISTRACTS ME FROM THE FACT THAT I EXIST; I POUR MY HEART AND SOUL INTO MY WORK AND IT DEVOURS ME. YESTERDAY I ACCIDENTALLY SHATTERED MY STOMACH, THOUGHT OF ALL THE THINGS I COULD BE: 1) THE SHINING SPACE BETWEEN DOORS, 2) A WORLD OF BEAUTIFUL DESIRES, 3)                              4) AN ENDLESS FIELD OF UNDULATING WAVES. INSTEAD, I WATCH DREAMS FOR MOVIES. GROW INTO A STRANGER. FLICKER AS A BURNING STAR FLASHING IN A STREET LAMP. BUILD A HOUSE WITH THE WORDS I SPEAK, PRETEND I DO NOT INHABIT A BODY, WATCH THE 7 O’CLOCK NEWS AND SCREAM AT A PIXELATED POLITICIAN. MY PROBLEM? THE MORE I DESCRIBE ANYTHING THE MORE VAGUE IT GETS, BECAUSE WHAT CAN’T BE FIXED WITH A GUT-WRENCHING, GUTTURAL PRAYER TO GOD? HOW CRUEL IT IS THAT I’M LEFT HERE WITHOUT YOU. DON’T ASK ME WHAT I WANT BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW. DON’T ASK ME WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW EITHER. I DON’T KNOW SHIT BUT I CAN STILL FEEL THINGS. I WEAR MY HEART ON MY SLEEVE AND IT RIPS, AND I KNOW I SHOULD PUT IT BACK INTO MY RIBCAGE BUT I CAN’T BRING MYSELF TO. COULD ANYONE, EVER? IN THIS SAD GENERATION WITH ONLY HAPPY PICTURES, GIVE ME YOUR HAND. I COULD SCRIBBLE ON IT. I COULD CONTAIN MULTITUDES. I COULD BECOME A BEAVER AND STUFF MY BELONGINGS INTO EVERY RIVER, SCOWL AT CHANGE.                 TELLS ME THAT EVEN THE WORST THINGS HAVE THINGS TO LOVE IN THEM. I SAY THIS SO THAT YOU CAN GO AHEAD AND PRONOUNCE THE T IN OFTEN BECAUSE NOTHING MATTERS ANYMORE. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.