Nights in White Satin

You have a tough situation. -- Nancy Lotz

I no longer have the resilience not to drag myself onto the hospital bed within a certain time frame and wish I did, reading myself like a parallel engraving. I am too old to use the glow of sexual energies past to restore my determination to transfer myself; it isn't the same as the intellectual fire I'm losing, and need to wind this down; I am not a girl any longer and cannot sustain intercourse as I used to, even--stopping to note my sister would kill me if she knew the lane I'm driving on after what I told her--even--even-- what is it I'm trying not to convey? That I'm exactly that type of woman whom Atticus Finch exposed in a vain and stark attempt to save a rural minority? I've been that callow and not that callow; he kissed my cheek, and in 93 a brother of his many degrees removed nearly strangled me to death. I went through similar things with white males in various degrees of disturbance and instability. I've sustained more than many a suicide before me, and I still cannot move that needle, remarkably, anyway, I am sorry, but I will finish what I have to go through and come out at some end, we'll see. Perhaps he will recover enough pieces-- no-- resurrect enough of me that I will recover some strength; I honestly never expected to desire an ambulatory male again, and I'm saying oh fuck, oh fuck, a woodpecker tending her chicks, dicey as that is, in the bore of a tree.