The easiest way to lose something is to want it to badly

Since I came back for London I've been quiet, not by choice but due to the curcomstenses. Who am I supposed to talk to I wonder. By not talking I've realized something : When I have company, I don't really do much talking anyway. So I'm okay with silence. I enjoy it. I listen to my own breathing, adjust it so that it'll match the base in whatever song I might have on. And I think it's gonna be along long time until touchdown brings me around again to find I'm not the man they think I am at home, oh no no no. I sip wine slowly, exhale smoke into my pillow and pretend that the world does not exist. Or maybe that my apartment is the world. My bedroom is France of course, bathroom Spain, kitchen Italy, hallway Germany, library USA and so on. I change what language I think in when I move from room to room.

Maybe Im going insane. Or maybe I've got the whole world in my apartment, and in that case I might just be the luckiest girl alive.


( Amanda, Im terribly sorry but I will not answer my phone until the atarax has left my body. Give it a day or two)

97

Autumn, and right back where I started from. London, rainy and cold london. The city where I was created, where my mother left me and I started to build up my own character. Wore the cloths I thought fit, not the ones she put out on the bed for me. Heartbroken still, but not as living as before and therefore it hurts less.

What do you do when you've lived an entire life during one year?

Fuck a stranger, tell him to hit you hard in the face. Watch The Loved One. Drink five bottles of plumwine and watch the earth spin. Try heroin. Give away your favourit Prada dress to the homeless lady who sleeps on the sidewalk around the corner of your seven bedroom apartment. Listen to Joy division. Call your father and tell him he fucked you up because you loved him to much.

Or let go of the rage. Find some inner peace. That is what Jane Austin would do.

On the road

The longer it takes me to write you all something, to tell you that Im alive and breathing, the harder it gets. So once again, my apologies dearest ones. Are you still here?

Chloè left our apartment about a week a go. Packed her bag and left wonderland in a red coat far to hot for these indiansummer days and a cigarette burning between her lips. A tout a l'heure chèrie! she said and closed the door. I couldn't bare chasing her down the stairs, didn't want to beg. I had begged enough. A woman in the need of fleeing shouldn't be tied down by guilt, and my voice filled with despair must have caused her heartache enough to last for a lifetime. At least I hope so, if the tables were turned I know thats how I would have felt. She kissed the crisp morning air outside and her stilettos said Bonjour to the cobblestone.

I hope she'll be back soon, you see we understand each ohter on other levels of madness than anyone else can on this burning planet. And she made me love her. Now.. I just miss her