2001-06-22 - 4:57 p.m.

I know, you love the song but not the singer

I know, you've got me wrapped around your finger

Placebo, Placebo

I don't know how much longer I can carry on like this. I hardly seem to move. I see myself not moving. I don't change. I'm stuck in a rut. I have to convince myself of this and move away, move upwards.

Was I ever in love with her? I've never felt the touch of my lips on hers, I've never run my hands through her hair; I've never brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. I never looked into her, not once. And so I never looked away.

Why do some people use the word 'love' so freely? And why did I fall into her trap. How can an innocent insouciance become so vile, so virile? I'm still attached to her. All that I want to do is to have her near me. I want to draw her close and speak; solemnly, quietly, or not at all. She is nonchalant. She sends me unfinished letters. If only I was a Petrarch, or a Dante. To only have her sewn up and away and untouchable. I have one night of memories and a lifetime of regrets, knowing that one day she will give herself over to someone and he will not be I.

She's forced me into a transitory state. I am sentimental. I am surprised. But why? I am blanc. I seem androgynous. I can only speak in soft tones. I have few words and a basket of frustrations.

To hang them away before there is no more support under these feet of mine.

I want to forget you.

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