So many things lost. So many things, I'm losing every day. I think I've misplaced my desire for writing. It's somewhere in the shower, swirling around the rim, and heading for the drain, with soap-clots and bits of hair that could no longer cling. I can't say all the things that grieve me. I can't write; it hurts to see them, confined in sentences, those little jails or zoos, offering for our delectation, the sad faces and sad sounds of a moment and a time and a place that I'll never know again. Fuck. What am I doing here? But you know, I'll keep at it, I have no other choice.

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