LETTER TO JUDE (transcript of an epistle found in a house in Sicily, probably never delivered)

(the first pages of this letter were nowhere to be found)

 – as a virus, as a daughter found under the bed of thought and vomit and the tenderness I carry in my stomach. This is no sainthood because we killed them all. And there is nothing rotting about us, except the holiness of the beyond, one which will always be doubted and trashed along with the daughters and sisters of the non-believing by the god believers. This does not make sense. I love you, you should know. It's sickening how much I talk about you and God. Sometimes there is a fusion between the two of you, and sometimes you are contradicting each other with such violence that I might break. I believe I will never escape this malady of faith, I will never be able to let it go. Besides, I've always known who I was going to choose. It was always earth before heaven, always limbs before the great judgement. These pages get quite repetitive, always with the same desires and same ideas poisoning every corner of my consciousness. It's like I use the same words, the same patterns which convict me as a murderer of imagination. There must be more to life than this. Is this creativity? 

Two weeks after I arrived in Sicily I stumbled across this collection of letters, correspondence between Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller. It was not really us, as you are forever kind, never loud, never violent. But I did lie from the start, as you know now. Did you expect me to tell you all of these things? Did you expect me to open my chest with your pocket knife and let you eat? I am afraid my reservations are often without use. You do excite my imagination as I told you when we were in Berlin. I never knew what to do when you left after dinner, where to put my hands so I kept them behind my back and knotted my fingers hoping you would untie them. It is the same thing I told Lou when we were in the back of your car: I am distraught with the prospect of your absence and I will forever seek your affection in silence. How could I ever tell you all of this? It would be a life sentence. 

When Millie arrived that night in her red dress and broken shoes I knew you must have told her everything. Her makeup was running as if she saw a car crash, an imminent death which she knew about but could do nothing to stop it. I always heard her loud and clear, I always wanted to believe her not because her prospect of this love affair was any good to my consciousness, but because she was always two broken heels ahead of me. I never knew how to defeat her. You told her everything and she came half-broken, half-enamoured to see me. I haven’t slept well ever since. It was then we vowed to make love with life itself. But in the beauty of it all, every cafe, every tree, every coast drenched in the southern heat, I couldn’t help but wonder if this is truly living or I am just continuously trying to control my hunger – like I am getting an appetite suppressant to stop craving hearing you. Frankly, I have never been good at controlling my urges.

I love you, you should know. 

P.S. Leave Berlin and come find me.

(unknown)