Omnia's Journal

His body was made of darkness and his hair contained small shrieking things.

After dinner he would sit up straight as though at attention, and in answer to a question she put to him he would twist the corner of his mouth into the shape of a small but incisive argument against everything she ever believed in. And she would wonder what lay behind those obfuscated brows. And who, or what, had created such a paradoxical and contradictory being?

Drowning on dry land.

I can't make any sense of myself.

The past is coming at me from all directions, crowding in on me. So I keep trying to winkle out a clue from the mess of my thoughts, a chink of light between the black POVs.

What was it that I wanted again and with whom did I want it - was it you?

I'm tired from sitting here, I'm tired of writing this and I know I will write another piece of gobbledegook just like it again tomorrow. Writing for others than myself doesn't mean I'm talking to my audience, I'm not talking to my audience, I'm talking to you. As if I knew who you were or why you might come here to visit with me, with your sad shoe box face chock-full of guilt.

Tell me what it's like to live a life of loneliness. Every day waking up and washing your face and making love to a partner whose hand you cannot grasp, nor your breast receive her fingers with pleasure, knowing even before she smiles and says that she loves you, that it's a lie.

Only an hour after you left the ghost has fallen out of me like the stone out of a cherry.

How should a suicide note begin?

"Well perhaps now we feel less."

Slice through the flesh of the page with a scalpel again and make a fresh wound inside of me.

If so this will be my last transmission.

When his caress lands, my pulse replies.

My words are out in the open for you tonight.

Accretion of sadnesses.

A new way of reading.

The dead flicker behind the bitter daylight.

This project 'begins in a moment of creative lucidity.'

It's too late for me now.

How shall I escape my life?

Her last gasoline-saturated manuscript.

Each time you write there is a

A cunning trap

Each time you cry there is a

A running tap.

The idea
enters
my skull.

"Here I end," I cry.

But will you have the will to try to?

How beautiful the darkness is inside us.

What a thing is the mind.