think about suspense
i find it really hard to relate to you nowadays. maybe it's just my memory of how it was. perhaps there is some truth to the polishing of the past. but it all i know is now, and even then only sometimes. those flashes will not, cannot sustain me. i say it like its some sort of necessity, but i know in advance i will take some advantage and with calousness i won't think twice. it's hard to think of myself as a bastard. but i can try anyway. my conversation is tripping away. the words are in a state of ambivalence, which is nice for all its cleverness, but difficult to work with. the dialectic, you me the world, is not how i want it to be. to be frank for one moment is just not in me. to be frank is not in anyone. frank you are a cheapskate, alcoholic, good for nothing liar. i wanted to tell you that nothing really matters, but then i realised freddy was playing in the background and it just didn't seem to be in ernest any more. caught myself out being to clever and fell asleep on the floor. remind me some time to tell you about hoover damn. how i used to shack up with sam. how the stitching would fall loose with just a couple of softly spoken words. like i want to hurt you. like leftover butter staining the microwave platter, an edge, a whisper from melting all over again. and again.