I miss you.
I am hot.
It is my fault.
All of this.
From tampon strings.
to bullshit things.
Music has my back.
And I have its back, too.
Every night.
I have dreams that.
you are gone.
Gone away.
But I don't have the heart.
Or the strength aside.
Because I still miss you.
And obviously I write about you.
Like a dumb dumb.
with heart attack Brooklyn blues.
I am Sylvia.
I am the return to...