From among the ephemera of the last few years - love letters; missives from Boston-schooled Ben; blurry photos taken on drunken, wild-eyed nights; news clippings of corporate-made destruction; magazine tearouts of bodies posed and pleasing; paper skulls; postcards from Shilpa Sevilla-bound, paper scribbled illegibly with notes, ideas, and quotes: "See, if I loved you, it was for your hair; now you're bald, I don't love you anymore."
Now I must snip out the unnecessary, attempting to distill those years of the girl becoming a woman. There is just not enough room, in this tiny space barely enough for me, to keep the material memories accumulated after years of living in an attic, in a space that could seem so massive at night, with enough space to hide and pack-rat. But it isn't possible, I fear, to compose in a few images the unruliness of desire, that creature veined with cruelty, joy and melancholy . . .