Sometimes it seems impossible that anything could come out of me and take real shape. The rest of the time it's just inevitable.
I wish I had something to say, something done, but I miss Napoleon's inquisitive little face, his comforting hands, his tiny gaits... this is why not to make friends with short-lived creatures, but also why I needed that kind of love.
I had another dream about running, this time carrying a long, treacherous knife. I tried to kill myself with it and sobbed and ran and bled and swam, my private isle flooded with people from my past.
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