Excerpts from a letter
I want to say I wander the streets here, but I don't. I sit on the stoop staring. I need someone to miss. No more ideas. I feel as though I've grown cold to the world. I say I know love, but I'm so clinical, so analytical. There is so much to be seen. I've enveloped myself in lies. I hate the cold, but I love shivers. Does that make sense? I wish I was sick but I know just how well I am. The doctors don't have answers. They've never had the answers I wanted. I am not sad. I am heavy. I don't know why, but I think things are going to get heavier when the snow falls here. I am falling into old habits. Curves like that scare me. The only thing that can make me cry right now is James Wright's "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota." Maybe I haven't forgotten.
What I mean is, I'm disembodied. It's what I wanted. It's not what I wanted. I am everywhere.
What I mean is, I'm disembodied. It's what I wanted. It's not what I wanted. I am everywhere.