I never once found an easy way. A way of expression, of movement, a way to tell you that my chest is wheezing and my head hurts. My eyes are bulging and a fog is covering but I am a person, still. I believe in aliens and I live to collect things and I am quite fond of clothes and fashion and poetry. I like to live and I don’t know a way that I can express it before I am dying.
I am dying.
My ribcage has been crushed and my eye has bulged out, I am nothing but viscera and agony and a sense of how things escalate. I borrowed a lot of things: books and animals and a figure of things that will have mattered when I was alive.
When I was alive.
I do not know the difference, between dead and alive and full to the brim with pills. Will a drug or two, a day of fast, will it solve the lack of expression and the difficulty and the agony. My bank account is as empty as my glass and I can’t fill either.
She will not live again.
Without ink and without a formation of twenty-six, I could never find a way to ease it or express it. Even with the false prophets and the scrapbooks and the lyrical expressions of others who came before me. I wanted to help, but it wasn’t safe to be close. The usual formations and the way I would express linear thought are impossible without the straight line, without organisation.