Monday, June 2, 2008

When I think of you in my head, I
see a celebrity waltz and a mask of
mosquito born diseases. Possibly a
walking display of distributive justice.

And it is strange that I desire to be the
beautiful mess that she once was.
In fact, strange doesn't suffice, because
this yearning is sort of sordid or nauseating.

Just think of all those times she could've
died. It's morbid, I know, but my interests
often lie in morbidity, rather than material
fame. Because I'm not interested in the people
she met and knew, and went to clubs with.
I'm interested in her dangerous life style.

Most basically, danger is alluring and if I
could have a brush with death every night,
then I would, in a single, solitary heartbeat.

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