Not supposed to know, anyway...

There is always something uniquely thrilling about being watched.

"Tying yourself to me, stitch up my emptiness...'cause you're the death of me. So precious -- loving the thrill."

Uniquely thrilling about someone's eyes.

"I mean that fucking you is strange and adored by me throughout."

Recoiling at that word is silly and inane, you know. I adore the shock-factor that comes when 'fuck' slithers out of an open mouth. It is, I think, the word-embodiment of what I want to be. Surprising, vulgar, obscene, dirty...a piece to the language-culture-world puzzle. Yes. That makes sense. Doesn't it?

Saw 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' again. Tim Burton is the pinnacle of human creativity. Johnny Depp is a beautiful clay-man.

I can't get over this addiction. To you.

"Tying yourself to me..."

Loving the thrill. Ultimately...loving the thrill. 'Do you know how good it feels to know that you are loved by someone that you absolutely adore?'

Yes? Of course you do. How silly of me.

Allow me to decipher just what, exactly, these things are that burrow into my brain. Just what, exactly, makes me write things like 'In the Attic' and makes me commit skinicide and makes me makes me makes...me. What makes me? This is getting convoluted and nonsensical. I think, perhaps, that I think too much. 'Cogito ergo sum' means little at this point.

I want you right now. Dominoes in the humid-grey-afternoon.

"So precious, loving the thrill..."