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If you’re still feeling dead, join me? I feel so dead that it is a wonder I am still breathing. I cannot stand much more of myself; or of my house. I want to scream, do murder, flee.

The power of a pretty girl… totally unquantifiable. But this much is certain: there is nothing a beautiful girl in the West cannot have, for a time. And I don’t speak from any far off hilltop–I’m as much a sucker as anyone. I’ve risked everything for a certain look, for tapered fingers or a particular mole. So I hear you when you say it’s not what she says, not what she does, that it’s on her. It’s something she wears and however skin deep it may be on her, it penetrates you right to the marrow. Pretty girls lie at the centre of straight culture, dyke culture, fag culture. They sell everything, they buy everything, they ruin great men and women, and finally they ruin themselves, accidentally, simply by getting old. I think about them. Sometimes I want them and sometimes I worry about them–even though it’s not my business to do. I wonder about them. I wonder if you are the pretty girl in question. I wonder what you do with a power which, though potent, makes you vulnerable to every probe, every demand, every infiltration? I wonder what you do with a power that turns you into an open atlas upon which any idiot can map their own route?