…maybe that will provide more oxygen for my lungs. I used to be able to meditate for at least 20min, but the maximum now is 5min. My fingers want to grab for the rescue drops or a cigarette, but I’ve decided no. It’s not easy.
I usually hate the song “The day the whole world went away,” except for tonight. Tonight it sounds like a prayer; a prayer I wish came true just for tonight, tomorrow night and for the next three as well. Everyone wants a piece of cake, and all I have left are fucking crumbs. Now one or the other might be pissed off I didn’t save him/her a piece. Fuck it.
In the past 6 weeks, I’ve had less than 7 days for editing and reading. It’s a shame. It’s a tragedy. I’m now leaving as a mess that cares about nothing except just one thing…
I’ve added more crimson to the novel. Whatever version you have read, it’s no longer valid. Please destroy. Don’t recycle, but destroy. I’m about to enter a novel competition run by females. So I will have 3 females (probably feminists) taking their time to read my entire novel. If only you knew how much I’m risking.
I did hope for Amanda Palmer (as the first woman) to read my novel, but I don’t think she got round to it since she’s writing a book herself. She is the only woman (apart from my ma) that I love. I don’t think any other woman will understand the heart surgeon.
This is more important to me than anything, and I wish I had been honest about it, but instead, I was sharing cakes…never mind. Pardon my self-centeredness. People don’t read this, so they won’t ever know, and I shall never tell.
My dreams come with a lot of crimson lately, and I have my period on top of it. I’m such a pretender sometimes. Moreover, I fantasize a lot when I’m staring at the white sea while typing letters. When I listen to my favorite songs, I see images and colors of all sorts that depict the only thing I have – creativity. But too often, they’re unable to move or erase this fucking silhouette in my head unless a piece of creativity comes with a shade of black: Black against black. This is when I forget that I’ve just broadened the silhouette.
I’m in the mood for passion and forbidden romance. In the past hour, I fantasized about B.E. Ellis French kissing my p.a. I felt an itch inside my chest. I can’t touch myself that deep, you see. Or M. Houellebecq’s breath against my ear is another lustrous image that makes me go ‘oooh.’ Goddammit. Before this goes out of hand, I need to disclose it all and pass them on to her. Chapter 11, chapter 19…
If only I had more time.
French kiss my p.a.