For Seth

A . S L E E P . I N . T H E . C R A D L E . O F . Y O U R . S P I N E

guess what, i found a picture of you - a file that i had never downloaded, a picture and its been decorated with someones awful poetry - i love it - i am astonished, it looks just like you. imagine that.

"the composer has stepped into fire"

i don't really know what to say - the roses are dead, everywhere . . . this desk is a mess with roses and papers and books and your letters printed out for the novelty of hardcopy these days now that were past the turn of the century.

i have to leave soon, and buy cigarettes, i need to speak for my doctor - i need to bear the hospital, you know, i am in no mood to be going to be observed right now.

i need to go and know my reasons - why i shouldn't die, why i should continue living. i'm going to make a list, and have some good doctor decipher it like no body should – regardless of if they are able to or not - i want him to write down reasons for me, though. the last gentlemen i saw had the most wildly uncreative reasons behind his outbursts we let pass for his feedback from our sessions. such as, why waste all that you have inside of you? almost . . .

i am going to live with this, constricting disease of sorts . . . is it the mind or the brain, which do you think?

the mind, of course it is the mind, isn't it? it matters somehow. but i cant quite feel right about either or.

words, i love words, meaning so easily lost in their own abstraction. its the okay insanity – when the words stop meaning anything when repeated too often in such short blushes of time. so what kind of book will you dedicate to your time? are you tired of these kinds of love letters yet?

what about what you were saying last time? im sorry – i missed wanting you as badly as i do.