Hunger is the name of the day, seems to want to become the name of the day. She has told me I write like a kind of carnage. The wreckage of the pain on the page. No. The wreckage of the joy in the wound. She wants it inside of her like a cock, like a secret, like a needle.
She wants there to be blood. No. She wants to be able to taste the blood.
What I write I do not see but feel as a connection between myself and the passing of experience. The many connections to the tortures I want to feel mourning through my own flesh, crying though my whole body. No. Crying with my whole body.
Morning is a living creature which advances with its own brutal light. It forces, it blinds, it distorts. In its clutches, I am unable to see what scorches through…
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