October 23, 1999
11:32 p.m. # 27

Lying on my bed, I curl up to keep myself warm, so as not to lose anymore of myself. The music pressed to my ears drawing out the sickness like a leech on snakebite, but the windows are closed so the sickness just fills up the room, like the emptiness that fills me.

Looking at my hands, idle, shiftless like a pile of bones, chalky and hallow. The only life running through them- this ink which will fade in time, as this season fades into the next.

The objects that surround me, with no breath, no significance, no meaning; they are too quiet as if to say they do not matter.

I have given myself to so many that there is nothing left. My saliva has dried up; there is nothing left to taste. I have danced too many nights in the moonlight and now I find myself sitting at a bare table in a small room filled with smoke.

To say that I am alone or empty is not enough, but there is nothing else to draw from. Everything has lost its texture- everything has become smooth and without edge.

The night has only become a string of time to be waited out; a drum... a heartbeat that needs to fade into sleep.

Tightly bundled, my hands like small birds fisted at my mouth, curling up upon themselves like dead flesh deformities.

Everything and everyone wants to be defined but it's when I give it a name that I lose all grip; my palms opening like flowers, but hold nothing. Everything drips like wax, but nothing solidifies. These are just waves that pass through me and leave as smoke or light.

Everything surrounds the soul. A padding of protection as if to say do not step here, do not touch here, do not linger. The objects around me all have a face, a date, time, place while I remain ungrounded; A suspension free standing without definition or reason.

I cannot give myself a name, I can only tell you who I am by the things I have touched; by the objects that recognize me when I walk into their presence.

I have no home, nothing that can hold me, nothing that can truly feel.

Gutted and light, but fragile and aging, nothing fills the wind inside me just the dull hum of absence of things that have melted.

My hands now to my breast, as if to reach in and hug myself, to squeeze my heart for a reaction. My lips pressed; an uninteresting pink desert. I am haunted by the absence of me and filled with the fears of a child whom I don't know.