(no subject)
the sun was raw and heavy. and when i looked up, i thought of everyone who sliced their wrists open. norma desmond. who put her head in the oven? sylvia plath. who hung himself after weeks of debate? ian curtis. whose lung collapsed from too much coke? dennis brown. and there were many who didn't make national headlines, and many who thought it was the right thing to do. and many, many who didn't mean much to anyone. but i guess the whole point is that they were doing something to rid them of the stresses, pains, just an endless plateau. the saddest part is that these people could have all been cured of their illnesses, if their cries for help hadn't led to successful suicides. i wish i could have known them. and when the heat sinks down my shoulders, and my elbows touch the ground, i feel a warmth i could never feel again. summer, 1997, what a year.