Another sleepless night passed. Autumn, you used to be my hero.
My savior from the torture of summer heath. The passion in august makes me sick.
With half closed eyes I stood on my balcony, overlooking this burning city for hours. Cursing the stars and spitting t'wards the moon. The cold breeze I used to think of as my equivalent to holy water passed me without it's once vibrating solicitude.
(Original sin, unable to wash off
Insomnia, one of my nine circles of hell)
The red wine dripped down on my chest, painting my white nightgown blood red.
Tim Burton, can't you please direct my life? Im sick of the Polanski taste I never seem able to spit out.