41 år

Ble medlem for 22 år, 9 måneder siden

Informasjon:

i used to think my body was made to write books. then i started out with my camera and a cigarette, a cold body, a discordant voice. another illicit night, another one for me walking alongside myself, another one for me laughing at your story about the bones in your body becoming more subtle, another one for me holding your hand, my drunken master. we were not the only ones and you were never my biggest sin. this is me leaving my german hand, this is me tempting you to blow my brains out. the nitrate the guitar the dusty floor the neil young vinyls my mother and the bones in her body. this is me not watching. this is me asking you to tell me that i am too fucking cold to stay out here for another night. this is nonfiction. i fear becoming you, hence the anti-screams when you undress, hence the anti-tears in the ocean when you drive into the city just to shut up alongside me. i cannot help you through the night, i cannot knife your eyes out i cannot be your beauty queen, i can be your decadent lover i can smoke my cigarettes in your house but i cannot speak. i can pretend not to fall apart and i can brag about the cancer and the music in us both. i cannot help you through the night but i can lie about my life for you. when i get well i will use a hammer. both my pictures and stories are about my self and my psychosis.