[(But we all know darkness never dies.)
I cannot rationalize. The aegis fades; fuck putting on a new coat. Vulnerability in the first degree.
The woman who laughs on the train; the boy behind the desk; a toddler who dangles his action figures by the ankles. We're not there; we're not real. Put us out of your mind; put us out of your misery.
He knows it; I know it. He scribbles down furiously in his notebook, and I brood (pout) reflexively. I stare ahead and stifle the rage. Why didn't I bring a fucking notebook? It builds, bubbles. I bounce. But with me is his pilfered notebook, and I duck into a stall to read. His subject? Envy, hate for the stoic writer, pen in pocket because, for him, thought is ink. A dismantling of his self, and I, on a pedestal. I close the notebook. In my right hand, I grasp my index finger; in one movement, I snap it back until it is perpendicular to my palm. My tongue bleeds.
When I get home, I eat the notebook.
Do I because I do, or because I know I should?]