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Ubar... This sounds like a perfect kind of place... In Ubar the people wear spiderwebs that give shape to their invisible bodies. The land of Ubar lies upon the Vegetable Sea... on an island with the shape and consistency of a mature cheese. 'Here the doors are made of cinnamon and the roads are ivory...' I could find an edge in a place like this... Settle down maybe... Stop looking over my shoulder... Grow my hair... Stop staring into space... 'Seven rivers of milk... eight of wine... Afternoon showers of cherry blossoms and honey water...' Maybe in Ubar I could wake up without the feeling that something's been drinking my blood.
SHE IS SORTING THROUGH HER THINGS AGAIN.
Maybe in Ubar I could be of more significance... I could buy a horse... And stop feeling moderately to fully freaked out most of the time. I'd cry less... More at first, but then less... And make my own clothes... And remember my dreams... In a house with cinnamon doors... And running milk... And Iıd find a boy... have some straight sex...And clean my bones of this dust... And feel beautiful and pure ...And stop shivering in the shower. And stop suspecting Iım evil inside... in the land of Ubar where grass is silk and the rats sing lullabies.
BLACKOUT. THE DAY PASSES.
