chapter 4...cont

When I write stuff like this I get wordless.  There's a funeral pyre mentality for you, right there.  You might suppose you must be committed to jump gallantly on the funeral stack, in fact.  If I had more wine, I could get wordy, but my fire in my gut is of the feminine sort, my chords are twisting and my reproductive system is a-dyin, and it's taking something out of me maybe, but giving me the power to focus, but these words are not the ones you want to hear, old chap.

Ok then.

Argh.  This is never going to do for buttocks-sizes.

A world where women are erased.

I'd write my memoir one day, but you'd never understand it.

I've tried to write it once or two or three times, but that's never actually worked out.

But really it was about side-stepping, in a dainty manner, the bonfire that was expected to erase me.  So maybe you didn't see the dainty steps since nobody expected it but me.

Ok, China?  At let that be three buttocks-sizes for you and not another word about this.  Because there's nothing more to say about the matter.

You can't undo an erasure, I am led to understand it.  Really, you've led me to the point of understanding it.

Two and two equals four.

The ecstasy of nihilism enters me and I'm a living flame.

Hopscotch.

I once galloped across a ditch or dreamt I did.  So put that in your hat and smoke it.  Merrily.

ekse.