it started again in her later years, when she had only
just declared independence. she sat alone (again) and bit her thumb with the
intention of blood. at first it was art class with the good conversations
spinning away from her like spanish gold and she
was too shy to walk from ceramics to drawing and join their
black parade. now she is isolated for whatever terrible reasons
(people don’t like her. she can’t sell herself and the price can be
romantically justified, but it doesn’t change the aloneness). it is
tiring to have idols beaten down again and again and feel
always like nothing
it is tiring to have your brain spinning into itself and mocking you:
she is stupid to keep trying, to keep caring. she will cry herself to
sleep again: so what? depression is a fine subculture but you
are not good enough for it.
the last pavilion 