French kiss my pulmonary artery

Maybe that will provide more oxygen for my lungs. I used to be able to meditate for at least 20 minutes, now I only manage five minutes. My fingers want to grab for the rescue drops or a cigarette, but I decided against it. It’s not easy.

I usually skip 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. The one or the other might be pissed off I didn’t save them a piece. Fuck it.

In the past six weeks, I’ve had less than seven 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…

I’ve added more crimson to the novel. Whatever version you have read, it’s no longer valid. Please destroy. Don’t recycle, destroy. I’m about to enter a novel competition run by females. So I will have three 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 to read my novel as the first woman, but I don’t think she got round to it since she’s writing a book too. I really like her. 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. Instead, I was sharing slices of cake…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’m on my period on top of that. I’m such a pretender sometimes. Moreover, I fantasise a lot when staring at the white sea while typing letters. When I listen to my favorite songs, I see images and colours of all sorts that depict the only thing I have – creativity. But too often, they’re can’t 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.

Never mind.

I’m in the mood for passion and forbidden romance. In the past hour, I fantasised about Bret Easton Ellis French kissing my pulmonary artery for true love. I felt an itch inside my chest. I can’t touch myself that deep.

Michel Houellebecq’s breath against my ear is another lustrous image that I find arousing. 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 pulmonary artery for true love.

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