Redness that's both linked and operative: mythologically unitary, but actually not contained. I refer you to the arteries and veins and also the valves which, on Miss
Libby's echocardiogram, resembled baskets of kelp. Miss Libby is no longer with us. The heart fails. Perhaps it is better not to pick up with another human being. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and raspberry
jam for breakfast? No. The heart is an open system. The heart is real. I don't want a
boyfriend. I don't want another dog. I want
red things: What moves my blood. Writing. I want the book to come.
What was the name of that French film? The one with
Beatrice Dalle riding a dog sleigh at the end? I loved that shot where the
girl's heart was lying next to her, wrapped in a T-shirt, throbbing in the snow. Did I really see that? I always
like writing afterwards, but then I write something new. I wish I still had the soundtrack to Betty Blue.