Today I had a rare experience, an understanding, sitting there under the shade. My fingers shaking from too much liquor. The pain in my right hand. The awkward twitch in my right bicep. ... I had this whisper. This inclination. Bass was playing. Guitar. A Christian voice, calling out to my soul. It was saying, "Pain is pleasure." That I make a myth of my own suffering. Like a hot knife along my own skin. Maybe I hadn't realised. The more I write, the more I fade. Cutting away the pieces of me. Literature that never gets read.

No Ashley. No Ashley.

God; I miss you. You were my love.

You were my love.

You were; and now you are gone, and I have never, ever moved on.