Hemlock Grove, PA
did you save my ponytail? you’re a sick bastard. anyhow, i saw shelley. what’s with the potting soil? i don’t get it.
who the fuck do you think sent this
don’t be retarded
The post office is in Georgia. Lynda knows someone around here, they might visit for a few days and then head out. He’s fidgety, nevertheless; can’t wait to get out of here. He might be half-Italian but it doesn’t matter. Not these days.
He sucks on the papercut absently. It’s starting to rain, the first few drops hitting the pavement like glass shattering.
Wow, Peter. Shit metaphor there. Keep it up. Do you feel it in your Swadisthana? Some Gypsy shit all up in this. Keep it up.
Why’d you send a letter, Peter darling? Why’d you bother, Peter darling? He doesn’t mean anything to you.
Never had friends before and this is why.
Because you always leave them.
That’s some Gypsy shit, alright.
They keep driving. They drive all night and Peter drives and they sleep in the car and thank god they’re not in Georgia he would give anything not to be traced back and he writes another letter
he writes little letters short ones
writes them in his head and they go straight from his heart
you must make your heart still
to the page and there’s no reason
you don’t contact the dead Peter not after they’re gone
not after you’ve left
you don’t mean anything to anyone and that’s the way you like it.
At least you don’t send them. That would be stupid.
You keep having these -- dreams --
wouldn’t call them that
don’t wake up don’t wake up please don’t wake up this time
You know waking up is usually considered to be socially acceptable.
and don’t scream don’t scream i couldn’t handle it if you screamed
peter wake up wake up it’s okay
It’s been eight days.
His nerves are jittery before he changes so he jacks off behind the gas station.
You want to know what he thinks about?
He’s not going to tell you.