The computer is hard. Bangs wet.
I made a school and died.
Now I write .
Go.
There is a man in the kitchen. The man cooks Mirabelle a perfect pita pizza. He has a daughter that has a mother who is a child. Conflict.
The last time I wrote was when I was writing to a man. Amen.
I can't write in sentences. Repent. I dye.
Damnit. How does a lady write a book when she only knows Haiku? I'm fucked.
Her voice is exilir. Baby. Born. B.
Can a novel be born of exerpts? No.
Black shirts. Laundry. Pack my bags.
You've been to too many bars when her voice is god.
Pizza man. I order mac and cheese. Like the kids in the park. Keep it simple.
I have a story. It is here and there.
Your hair reminds me its time.
If I could fuck your voice I would.
