It goes something like this:

I found some work in one of my mountains of scrap paperwork. It's not dated, but it's probably from around 7 months ago. Very pretentious, so I will keep it for the sake of posterity. Years from now I can look at it and laugh even harder at myself than I am now.

It goes something like this:

"I want this:

The thrust and pulse of music reverberates through my body. Slammed closer, skin to skin, a thousand myriad strangers shudder and grind together. I feel sickened by my own perversity, my desire for violence, for hard, heavy contact- a collision of corporeal ghosts. I did not come here alone. I have left the others far behind me in my thirst to belong to belong to this host of unknown individuals, made one in our desire to forget. We are pulled inside out, our dark and sweaty inner selves exposed to electric lights and the vibrations of synth, bass, drums. We cling and are clung to, frantic hands flung upwards as if gasping for air.

I want this:

She wakes up the earliest, because she never really slept. A confusion of half-hazy ideas and vivid pictures possessed her mind in the night. They are banished by the shrill and desperate dawn chorus. She dresses at speed, knocks back tepid bedside water, and quietly lets herself out of the house. The girl does not take a key, or mobile, or money. She does not leave a note. As soon as she is out of human sight, she runs. She does not stop. She disappears into the landscape of her own thoughts.

I want this:

I discovered that I was still ugly. I had removed so many layers, peeling back, scraping, scratching and destroying, pulling out the barb of past experience from my skinless self. When I found the core I saw that it was ugly, and wrong. I ran down to the beach, lay down in the surf, and let the swash and backwash of the ocean soften and erode me into nothing. Into dust."

By me, for me, about me (probably: I am very ego-centric) because I don't expect anyone else to read this blog.