I Enjoy Films Where Two

My Thoughts Are Messy, My Emotions Are Messy, My Body Goes In And Out At Will. The Raised White Scars On My Arms And Legs Are The Only Aspect Of My Being That Comes Close To Minimalism. They Came From Chaos, But It Is Hard To Carve Frustration And Unease Into The Flesh. Only Straight Lines.

I Envied Women With Signature Hair-dos, Signature Perfumes, Signature Sign-offs. Novelists Who Tell Vogue Magazine: “i Can’t Live Without My Smythson Notebook, Pomegranate Noir Cologne By Jo Malone And Frette Sheets”. In The Grip Of Madness, Materialism Begins To Look Like An Admirable Belief System.

Are You Mine?” Yes. “are You Mine?” Yes. “are You Mine?” No. “no?” No. I Loved Being Yours. But Now I’m Mine, Which Is All I Ever Was, In The End.

If You Don't Know Who You Are, Madness Gives You Something To Believe In.

I'm Not Crazy Or Dangerous, Just A Bit Eccentric And Lonely.