v u l v a l i c i o u s Will You Miss Me, My Dear? And My Wild, Wild Hair? 2002-09-10 // 1:46 p.m. "We talk hotels, we talk whisky, underwater, overthinking." The lines are running through my brain like leftover sink water--dirty, not very cleansing, perhaps a bit heavy. But I like it, I think. And things are shaping up here, turning into something I like more as each day passes. The floor in my room invites me to dance, and I thank it with my feet. The windows allow in plenty of light, and I wonder if the people on the street can see me when I'm naked. I wonder who wrote the words I can't stop thinking, if it was Bitch or Animal, or the two of them sitting together, writing the things we all feel. "Maybe love is underwater, I am caught in the rocks." There's a sweet, dark beauty in those words that makes me feel comforted. My cunt, a safe haven. back-forth