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Wouldn't it be good, if you could mend a broken heart.. actually superglu it together, and laser out the scars. Wouldn't it be good, if you could rub out your hurt. Get a tippex bottle and really blot out each bit, until you couldn't see it or feel it.

(unfinished)

Inspired by a British report into sexuality commissioned in the last 1940s, which finally proved too shocking to publish.

I think it has taken this long for the seriousness of all this to dawn on me. People often comment that I look younger than I am and I do. There is something about my smooth skin and slouching pose and delicate hands that flutter like moths, that does not betray my nearly three decades. But inside I am older, the smoke of half my life churning through blood vessels, choking vitality and coating my thoughts with dusty shadows. I can't hide my inside from the outside for very much longer, so I will have to repair it. Clean it out, air it, give it a new coat of paint, flesh out the half-life to give it substance that other people can see.

Well... I have not been able to write anything. see.

The headlights pierced through my eyelids as I squinted in horror, getting brighter every second as the car drew closer and closer to me. We both stopped, hands clamped tight around the steering wheel. We stared through our un-touched windscreens and looked directly into each others eyes. The traffic around us was noisy, still moving trying to avoid our near accident.

I wish I could de-frag my brain..

For what its worth...

Maybe tomorrow, I won't care about all those words you used to say.