I'm currently in some sort of 'no-man's land'. A letter from L-Star and cuttings from magazines litter my bed. Reminiscent of a Nan Goldin photograph. Clean lingerie. Black. My hair is getting too long. I seem to be between the bitter and lonely end of the end and the beginning of a beginning. I'm frightened it's a mirage and I'll be stuck in the end zone for longer than I think I can manage.
Oh little spark of hope, I don't know how long you will stay with me. Are we on holiday? Is this a beach we'll have to leave when the tide comes in or are we in a wood, where we could lose ourselves but keep walking forever? Will you leave me in the end for running away with words? Will the words ever be enough?
Am I not your girl?
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