I must stop making her seem so perfect. It is time I left that part of me

behind: the grief is ten months old, for God's sake. I feel like I haven't

seen sunshine in these sixteen years of mine. Ian Curtis is singing to me

from the other end of my room, and I feel my melodramatic little isolation.

Oh, but wasn't she something. She was an angel, although on reflection we

didn't have as much in common as I pretend. I mustn't spoil it. It was

perfect, I tell myself again. I am Soren Kierkegaard. I am Humbert Humbert.

Tragic past loves haunting us.

Still the same as I was when I was twelve. Still looking to be the pale,

gaunt, thin figure in a trenchcoat.

Adverts for clothes presses. News reports about distant politicians and

even more distant wars. Patronising children's dramas, all muted by the

fact that the intended audience is out looking for drugs.

Promise me she won't ever become slave to this world. I don't want my

memory of her to become polluted by this bullshit. She is now a ghost.

Don't force her back to the world of the half-living.

Here I sit, Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon serenading me from my stereo,

dreaming of you. You make it all seem real when I'm with you, promising

myself that I might be human, our declarations of love hanging in the air,

hanging in the music-filled smoke, or the depressive concrete of your city.

I want to be with you now, so that I didn't have to count down the hours

that band rehearsals and sleep don't eliminate. I just want to hold you and

make sure that those fuckers appreciate you a little better than they seem

to be doing. You're more than anything ever was.

I'm sitting here, listening to Snow Patrol, drinking coffee I don't want so

I don't have to eat much. Everything is so contrived! I am actually working

towards making myself ill, for several reasons. It isn't genuine. I am not

genuine. I am tired.

For the first time in a couple of years (maybe more!) I have been seriously

thinking about suicide. As ever, I feel too tender towards the people who I

love, and too guilty for making them love me, to actually do anything. It

is, for me, a triumph that I have sunken back down to this pure creative

high. Hopefully I can blast through my music-writing block. I'm doing some

reasonable lyrics, so maybe.

I have just one direction and I force myself forward. No respite,

desperation. No respite, desperation. No respite, desperation.