If you need me I'll be in the garden, pottering about, with gin blood and tobacco lungs.

"We're still holding hands through a cat flap aren't we?"

Oh, I was born with the name Geraldine
With hair coal black as a raven.
I travelled my life without a care,
Ah, but all my love I was savin'.

Okay, so it's this excessive swelling of the chest area. You try not to write blog posts or go on facebook or smoke cigarettes or text too much or drink too much alcohol or be sad and pathetic, like monopod and all. You tell yourself, when you're walking to work, working, walking home, sitting on the deck, lying in the park, not to do these things. They're unrealistic, damaging to the heart cells and shit. Sometimes I feel a moment defining a section of my life. You look back and you remember songs that you listened to when you were lonely, food you ate when you were content, the air quality when you couldn't get out of bed, the smell of linen when you knew someone, the season when you read The Great Gatsby. Silly shit like that. They define parts of your life. Little, tiny stories that die after a while. I don't know why it's relevant, but I think am bored and doing that thing I told myself not to do.

Like, do you ever want to eat yourself up because someone left themself all over your skin and behind your ears and in you hair and in between your fingers and stuff. Like, you just want to eat it all up and spit it out and cry and then stop and have heightened eye colour? You're weird if you do. That's just super creepy.

We're just wearing black and going on lonely dates, for morbid fun.

It doesn't matter now, because everywhere I go, I will be beautiful and live on cigarettes and berries. It wont matter what I am or where I am. Just be. I am glad I don't need anyone. I am glad I have realised this. I don't even need you, stupid blog of doom.

Each cell freezing in his lungs. Probably started when he was twelve. Everyone is feeling sorry but I am not, because if he didn't want to die then he wouldn't.