I wrote a letter to Richard Ramirez. There is no reason behind this. None at all. The man is repulsive. I understand this well. It would bore me to have to respond, should he decide I am someone he desires communication with. Let us say, I had stationary that couldn’t very well sit on my desk forever.
September is a frozen picture of the uninteresting.
I don’t know what day of the week it is, and I should. This has nothing to do with suicide, but homicide. This has nothing to do with ending a life, but a philosophy so absurd, it should have never existed.
Is it possible to empty the contents, without harming the vessel? Will it break without anything to give it weight? Wasn’t it designed to hold exactly what it contains?
Desperate hands, create odd designs. And I say, I am loyal to the grotesque. It mirrors the bizarre etchings found throughout my body. It heals my corrupted and interrupted sexuality.