April 22nd, 2002. - 11:42 a.m.

With one light tap, this is sure to dissolve.

It is snowing out. And all I want is my rooftop and some music. This thing will soon sprout wings. Destroy the fingertips. All powdery. Like a moth. Wraps each section of the vertebrae. Tightens. Like being crushed under a car. Secures to the hip bones. And will not let go. If I had thin silver needles, I could place them under my skin, arrest this invasion.

"Your honour, with God's help, I will fight this horrible affliction."

N.

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