I can’t remember how my death read then. There’s a good chance I was probably reconciling myself with suicide (as a way to circumvent the filial habit of cancer) but I doubt very much I would have mentioned such an uninspired exit. Odds are, for the time, that I didn’t think that I would ever die or that I reckoned I was already dead on account of what that stranger said in the methadone shadows of a Village café (where S and I drank underaged cocktails with couscous and made out well after curfew) which coincided, rather sublimely, with MD’s revelation that she was a vampire (by way of psychic phantasmagoria I didn’t quite comprehend but I accepted, dumbly, anyway) and therefore – through our storyboard romance of blood-letting/sucking/fucking – so was I or maybe it was the fresh advent mania that came screaming once I went cold turkey after months of ill-prescribed and grossly overwritten meds.
But I probably didn’t say that either.
O could never be bothered with any of that nonsense. He had his own madness to pave and I was envious because every inch of his talent and culture and style and yen and sex played like the perfect prelude for a murder most beautiful.
It didn’t though.
He’s alive today as I am.
Demain Est une Autre Nuit Tracklist
Demain Est Une Autre Nuit
Dépassée Par Le Fantasme
Le Port Du Masque Est De Rigueur
Facing The Music