All right, you win.

Stick that throbbing plunger-needle right into my autobiographical vein. Nothing I want to write comes out, like eating too much dairy. The Tower has gotten too far away from me sweet-- so far away, like a Dire Straits song. Yellow girl and grey cat don't know what to do with themselves. Listen to songs with girl in the title impotent with the great swellings of creation in their blue invisi-balls. Captain Claws, Phantom of my Opus clambers all hook-and-nail into my lap to tell me how it has to be.

His song is easy. Snuggle snuggle, pet pet, feed me Seymore. I don't give a damn about your dreams or the diamonds in your mind. Just love me and pet me and everything will be all right. His enemies are pens and keyboards, and all the thoughts in my head. He's friends with my bed and his food dish, and the basket of clean laundry I haven't managed to put away and which is probably still slightly wet.

He is wonderful, but he is very simple, and he is not a girl. Which is what I want, at the end of it.

I have no love, none at all.

I cannot love memories and ephema-girls who do not want to be loved-- who do not want love as I discover it-- not any longer, not for some time now.

Je refuse.

<<agé chose>>

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