That I was always turned away, situated in the hazy phase between dream and drone.
I am the electricity radiating from my skin. I am slowly killing you.
She craves security the way she craves a cigarette. It’s nothing to her but a home to live in for three minutes.
And you could expect to see her there, all those years ago, slouching behind the 7/11 before dark, silhouetted against neon signs with smoke plumes rising up over the dumpster.
A long time ago, a man damaged the part of his brain responsible for sensing where his body ended and where the world began. The only way he could describe it was that his body "bled into everything." That’s all I’ve wanted this whole time.
The Virgin Suicides