Writing about a lover is impossible if you’re still together. Where’s the bad? The end? The full, wounded heart wrench? It’s how we rinse each other out of each other and, love, it’s Summer, but I am avoiding water like the plague.
Re: The Plague’s Deadly Spread From Village to Village, And Their Desperate Recreations Of Christ’s Crucifixion As A Means To Please God:
a: “So happy we didn’t exist back then….”
e: “Who says we didn’t?”
Let birds be birds, and bygones? Well, you have to shoot those in the head.
I don’t like stories with round, fleshy curves. I don’t like them because I can’t write them. No, mine are cut-up, reversed, lobotomized glimpses, how the head feels when perpetually concussed. They are words I can’t find, hammers with no handles, they are dried puddy, or dust piles. Most do not even exist.
The “bad time.” I’ve seen it three days in a row now. Nothing “bad” has happened, except for the sting in my stomach when the time appears. Cats have died, lovers have resigned. Why should I not be afraid? There are power in numbers. Powers in numbers. At what point did the psyche disarm against Time?
Replace every “I” with “She” or “Henrietta.”
Henrietta doesn’t like stories with round, fleshy edges, because she can’t write them, and they mock her pinched, narrow personality.
She sees the “bad time,” and draws spirals until the closest midnight; a new day is safe, and Henrietta likes safe.
This is how you write a story. All the inane, insane self-aggrandized thoughts become someone else’s thoughts, but now they’re “interesting.” And you can paint yourself with red hair, instead of murky brown, have golden eyes, or a thin smile, or a pet wheelchair. We exaggerate the mask as a way to scrutinize the truth behind it. Or whatever’s in front. Fiction is a lens. Reading glasses. We see better with it.
She's a Messy Muse 
“At what point did the psyche disarm against Time?”
Lovely, lovely. I love reading your blog, dearest. I am here for you, always.