I was born tired and have since suffered a relapse.
I must dare to be truly unhappy. Desperate. And not save myself, short-circuit the despair.
By refusing to be as unhappy as I truly am, I deprive myself of subjects. I’ve nothing to write about. Every topic burns.
Flame retardant skin: not such a worthwhile investment in the grand scheme of things. Can I ask you a question? How hard is it for a desert to die? Maybe as hard as it is for me to find words of my own. Every topic burns, but I have everything to write about. Sometimes it feels like I'm choking to death; sometimes my arms bend back.
What are you supposed to do when you've become so safe that you can't risk letting it all come out? So safe that you can't even risk being burned by someone's body heat? I've almost forgotten what he felt like and I don't know what to do with that. I did it for my own safety.
The other day I listened to some of the songs from the mixtape I made for you. Only some, because I'm still too safe to listen to it all. I found myself struck by his courage, really a bona fide Azzarello that one. All together now:
I want to be set ablaze.
And just like that, it's gone. Actually... I think I might be running a fever?