I was never sick like that, said so
cautious, said one afraid to live. Most perish going in, baked early on, trying
more to fix it than to live it. I was never on edge like that, intolerant of
mistakes, loving her guts—the voice of the picture, the angst of the climax, so
afraid to win. There it appears, drums beating sanity, anxious to live
literature; if it feels good, I must walk away, if it feels bad, it’s more
natural to me. I exaggerate, slightly, feudal, crazed, obeying, defiant,
laughing in the face of dazzle; racing like speed, told to slow pace, mad she
disagreed. Deeper than a platypus. Aquatic sensuality. Suffering from aphasia
at points. I was sick of her. I was addicted to her. It was hell on a bridge to
her. So into nails, so captured by biting, so aloof three hours after breakfast—I
exaggerate—known to live, asking foreign questions, pissing off Ms. Innocence.
