what have i done
Sep. 22nd, 2001 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aslanti have done many things.
i cut off all my hair.
i burned my journal.
i asked the bmb (#4, connoisseur's choice) out on friday. he asks nothing of me. although he keeps asking me to sign receipts for what i've received. he says he will deliver me the packet of all my cut-off hair on monday and see if i can't keep from laughing. i tell him i won't even go in on monday. i'm flying to seattle. i have an appointment to keep.
well, not quite.
lies and more and more lies.
c cut it for me.
i'm in hartford.
i'm in recovery.
o. let this be my Repair.
i had an episode [terrible word] on friday night and it left me in another puddle. it tore me apart to think of separating from these words, this space like a steady pool of silence.
when the bird turns its head to look at you it does not say what have you done but who have you harmed?
it was sail on silver bird on the television. it was the stairway. it was the sound of it like a symphony on the edge of the void. it was remembering whose words i no longer hear. i retreated. it broke down on me, the calm of the week. it gave way to the bitter wrack, the brittle eyelight.
i don't revise this. i give it up to those who want to read it. i make myself obscure because it is not for you, motherfuckers. it is not for you anymore.
i cut off all my hair.
i burned my journal.
i asked the bmb (#4, connoisseur's choice) out on friday. he asks nothing of me. although he keeps asking me to sign receipts for what i've received. he says he will deliver me the packet of all my cut-off hair on monday and see if i can't keep from laughing. i tell him i won't even go in on monday. i'm flying to seattle. i have an appointment to keep.
well, not quite.
lies and more and more lies.
c cut it for me.
i'm in hartford.
i'm in recovery.
o. let this be my Repair.
i had an episode [terrible word] on friday night and it left me in another puddle. it tore me apart to think of separating from these words, this space like a steady pool of silence.
when the bird turns its head to look at you it does not say what have you done but who have you harmed?
it was sail on silver bird on the television. it was the stairway. it was the sound of it like a symphony on the edge of the void. it was remembering whose words i no longer hear. i retreated. it broke down on me, the calm of the week. it gave way to the bitter wrack, the brittle eyelight.
i don't revise this. i give it up to those who want to read it. i make myself obscure because it is not for you, motherfuckers. it is not for you anymore.
