Do you remember me?

Phone rings and a hurricane answers. Says 'shhhhhh' and 'hell' and 'everything must go.'

Do you believe in ghosts?

I carefully describe the contents of my mind to the scribe. She nods occasionally. After several years, I notice that her pen is made of paper. She stops. Screws up a page. Screws up her face. Says 'Sometimes I worry I'm not a real writer. What do you think? How do I look?'

My fury exceeds my skill. There is so little I can do with it. So I try to leave it behind.

I keep having sex but I quickly lose interest in it. My desire exceeds my skill. There is so little I can do with it. So I try to leave it behind.

But how else do you kill time?

Not being touched is one thing. Being touched and feeling nothing is another. At least with the former, you can reasonably believe you are not alone forever.

I keep falling in love, these past two decades. It's because I'm not good. It's because I'm interested in it.

And how else do you mutilate time?

Never having loved is one thing. Loving and losing and loving again is another. At least with the latter, you can reasonably believe you are capable of love, if not proficient.

Phone rings and it's the fucking Duchess of York, masturbating loudly down the line. Says 'television' and 'capital' and 'everything must come.'

I also talk dirty sometimes.

Do you really believe in other people's minds?

Your father, who art in heaven, has a name.

Do you know how I know we're all cowards and fanatics, desperate for unbounded love?

Because we give names to hurricanes.