"This journal, as my journals tend to do, has waned hard the past two weeks. It's a bizarre emotion when you find yourself nonchalantly nonbreathing, nonmoving, permanent stagnancy. Beta-waves beta-waves, I feel as though facilitating nonmovement is so much less painstaking; pleasurability? It is a non-factor. Working on leaving living. MBV makes me feel abysmally inpenetrable. An instantaneous abandonment of my palms, teeth, nails, stomach. All is a mockingbird, a garden full of mockingbirds, all laughing until the blood of their throats congeals into a solid gold coat of purity. We are suffering and surfing. With each step you must look shoe-wards and shake your spine twice, just to ascertain the fractalities you've led. Shake your hands and hips, wring your head, take to teeth and turn them to a kiss. Absence makes the heart grow longer: mine is a tapeworm, hostless and disinfected. Virile turned virginal Who will count your feelings while you sleep? Death and dissonance circulate the room while your funeral party is prepared. Anxious in the wings; flowers are laid beneath the body you had known. Ears turned to wax and tongues to plaster. In twenty thousand years your bones will be dug from the earth like dinosaur fossils. I lay-here beside you as the blood still pours from your cheeks, I am coated in a syrup stained of red saccharinity. Over the years the dirt will press into our cavities. Then in those several eras, millenias... we'll be presented once they've passes as a simple ochre crystalline jewel: hardened piece of amber. Specimens in jars. Seatbelts and cars, you keep me so warm until we sleep."

Letters pt. 2: to others and self