If it appeared I held a man, know that I only leaned on him to keep from falling over. I am always intoxicated from too much of some kind of emotion. The still moments are there when I have spent myself. They are as false as a proud man’s face. Though my heart be fickle, it contains some honesty. If it appeared I loved a man, know that only the intention existed, and the deceit was not devised out of malice.
What notes did they take, in the days when I was watched so carefully?
There was this man. Not an interesting one. Not the kind whose face you can remember years after last seeing him. He had wild hair, and cocked his hip to the right. Never the left, just the right. His pants were always too short for his lanky figure. And if he should extend his arms out, he would resemble a skeleton tree, drawn by Edward Gorey with Tim Burton’s black pen. The thing about him is that, he had a thick Scottish accent. I could never understand what he was saying, but it was breathed out with such a passion, that I found it a tragedy it all sounded like gibberish to me. None of this is true. I’ve never met such a man in my life. I am imagining men, so that the one who is occupying space in my head is pushed out.