2001-07-07 - 12:24 p.m.

I am struggling right now. I can't live with or without the airconditioner. I am...what shall I say?

in Italian - crollare (to fall)

in French - desole (to be sorry, but not only - with desolation annexed).

I'm falling and I'm desolate. Barren. Take all of your deserts and clench them together. My thoughts are two tired featherweights in the final round. And I hold onto them, a terzo incomodo, doing my best not to fall down.

I am struggling to recover. I've discarded strawberry milkshakes, thoughts of her, Elliot Smith, even. Ella Fitzgerald mourns to me of a love not forgotten. I pine and I rub my eyes. To only wax lyrical, once.

Milk, Milk. My obsession. Let my skin be discolored, le me be half an albino. My sleep is punctuated with aeroplanes and I can only float while sleeping. When I am awake I am living a quality. But to be cheapened so? Mere sustenance involves turning my back on reality. I end each day acknowledging failure.

I have milk. More long-lasting than the remnants of a kiss. My bones are stronger. Calcium. I may fall with duplicity or a broken heart. I can be irreperably used up. Now, I have bones. Now, I can heal myself.

Come to me and be my guide. Milk. I have no fire. No three syllables. Lo-lee-ta. I will live without vitality but I will have milk. It will not desert me. It is patient. Never-changing. No longer will I hark back to flavors past. I need not salivate. Urgency abandoned.

I am no longer certifiably alive.

troilus

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