I have been too honest, and now I have given everything away. I have worn out this simulacrum, but unlike the rest, I do not want to give it up. I don't want to construct a new body, a new langauge, a new ideal. I am left at the earths skull, still trying to find some dirt to scrape away from the bones, searching for lies and things to expose, and there is nothing. It is all gone, I am empty. This nudity, it means nothing.

I think of having sex in order to fabricate, to spark a new consciousness: a baby. But it, too, would be an incubating lie. All these pretty words, they're decoration, they're not real- and I'm trying to grasp onto what that is while still maintaining something that is beautiful. Is this possible? Is there beauty in simplicity, in minimalism?

I have rid myself of everything, expelled everything I swallowed from the exterior, vomitted and excremeted and sweated until I was clean, pure. My limbs have stiffened and now I feel dead.

It is true, I bleed and menstruate in your absence. Creation is only full of lies, white or black or orange and red, it is all wrong. It is all fiction. The greatest novels are our own history books.