It's early. Friday. I'm in bed wrapped in clothes that smell like the black hair on his chest.

Listening to Okkervil River for the 100th time today, and writing about how I feel -
in the only way I know how to.
A transient dialogue inside of my own head.
Like there's some kind of audience applauding my obedience to detail and description.

Truthfully, I'm in bed because I don't know what to do with myself.
I'm too uncertain to climb the walls, so I cleaned the flat and did the laundry instead.

Tomorrow I'll be in a hospital bed somewhere in London - cut open and stitched back up.

I'll write letters in my journal, while the morphine takes hold.
I'm imagining interesting little night visions and lucid poetry will take shape.
Hopefully I'm right.

Goodnight.
xo