Who else waits for the click? When you're so drunk, the edges blur and in the haze, there's silence. Or when you're so hungry, all you can imagine is the creamy centre of an eclair, and there's no pain: just that one image. Or, as I've been exploring so thoroughly, the click as you lie under someone and suddenly, as your bodies are as intimately entangled as you will ever be, unity and silence. How cliched. This is how pretencious people justify casual sex. I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with silence. I write, I think, I think until I scream and then I write some more. I want to write a novel. I want this to become something a little more permanent, tangible. I'm sick of destroying things, the irony of wanting to make something based on self-destruction. That would surely make it worth it? On a lot of people of blogs they have their history of mental illness (because, dearest, most thinspirational ladies, we're on the fine line between sanity and intolerable craziness.) perhaps that could go somewhere? What do you think? - Honestly, bluntly, brutally.