I hardly ever write anymore. I hardly ever feel like it. Why are we even here? When I wake up I am hurt and heavy. I can sleep for days. I want always to be sleeping. The world is much purpler there. I used to love purple. I could not pronounce it properly. My favorite color was pull-pull. My favorite color today is black. I cannot mispronounce that. Morrissey pronounced it best. I was written with that song in mind. When I don't write I don't exist. I don't write everyday because I'm not. I am not. To write is just a wake-me-up. An unpleasant interruption of my own inexistence. I plunge the blade into flesh for clarification. Count the times I'm not here. Nothing bleeds. No one bleeds better. I'd rather be no one than you. You are someone. Some body. Some thing. I am no one. No body. No thing. I can bleed better than you. I am scars, that is all. You're taped together but real. A blow up doll held together with string. A 3-digit number in this thirteenth hole. I am zero. I am better than two. I am no one. No body. No thing.
          Marcia Moore is dead. Someone killed her and no one cares. Her bones went missing in 1979 sometime after black coffee and the scorpion. Her ritual interrupted by someone else's. What a shame to eat the brains and toss the skull to the road. When I get some money I'm going to Washington State. And I don't need Special K to get there. Eat my brain too, if you like, but I will get there. I am not afraid of lizards. I kept one in my freezer for years. Not until Missy started to get possessive did I toss it to the road sans the brain, of course. My rite was to eat the eye and quite frankly, I rather enjoyed it. I wasn't quite ready to turn the other cheek. I would much rather not. I've always wanted to fly but not nearly as much as this. The poet laureate better watch it. He will not make it out like the gingerbread man. Burn the journals in advance they're hardly worth reading. The wolves won't even have the brain. And the eyes, good god, just pinch them closed!