Sulk. An interesting word. It reminds
me of sink. The ship sinks, the
sea sinks, the earth sinks. I sink.
I sing with sulk. I smoke hard,
leaving my teeth mark on the
yellow-wish filter, not letting go.
Was it yellow-wish, or brown, or
anything else? Something-wish can’t
be exact. Does it matter? To whom
and about what? Who could be exact?
I leaned my face near the low light at
my desk, reviewing my life in another
low light, a bigger one. I’m not anything,
not anything enough, as always. I am a
completed piece of art composed of
incomplete pieces, severely torn with
edges incompatible with each other.
Reminiscence haunts me near the ashtray:
body unembraced; moments unenjoyed.

很多東西做，很多事情發生，要做萬能俠，才能應付得來。我自己要支持着自已。

From Jeanette Winterson's The. Powerbook:

"My search for you, your search for me, is a search after something that cannot be found. Only the impossible is worth the effort. What we seek is love itself, revealed now and again in human form, but pushing us beyond our humanity into animal instinct and god-like success. The love we week overrules human nature. It has a wildness in it and glory that we want more than life itself. Love never counts the cost, to itself or others, and nothing is cruel as love. There's no love that does not pierce the hands and feet."

今晚很重要。希望自己不會倒下來。