I met Lallabye over Dante and Milton in the local library. I asked her if she had sinned, she wanted to know what I thought of Glory.
As the relationship developed, I realised that Hope, like the telephone, was one of man's most annoying inventions and there were no limits to the number of orgasms a woman can have.
Lallabye was a modern-day Venus who used the palms of seashells as ashtrays and emerged from the bath with a glistening film of desire clinging to the surface of her skin.
I used to want to be a fish and lead a catatonic life which would include regular feeding times and an abundance of voyeuristic activities. An aquarium would have been my desired abode and I would have traded my dick for Gills any day.
Now, as you can gather, things are different; Jimmy Hendrix is just Jimmy Hendrix and not something to aspire to and instead of licking my wrists when I am happy, I lick her nectar-lined pussy with the enthusiasm of a kitten on heat.
I've stopped thinking about Death- reincarnation is my new religion and if I had one wish, I think I know what it would be.
Oh yes, Lucas Gladstone has blossomed amidst the shit and my days of angst-ridden lamentations have dissipated into fragmented particles of silent dust.
I never asked to be born, you see, only understood and then left alone. My experience in the womb was petrifying, so you hear, I was cramped into my mother's universe and her acids scorched my skin continuously, unforgivingly for 9 months. Eyes bound by the abyssal sensory hell like sticky honey on your fingers.
That's why I don't want Lallabye to conceive- even when she asks me to" "with a voice full of wanton delights, I only succumb to her request if I know that I can control myself.
I think I love Lallabye because if she left me I wouldn't know what to do.
Acquainted as you all are with my paranoias, you wouldn't be surprised if I told you about one of my dreams:
"Lallabye was going to leave me for the guy who sold the 'Evening Standard" and so hurt was I that I came to the conclusion that in order to keep her, I would have to drill a hole though her head so that she could become my zombie."
When I woke up, I looked into space with my burnt eyes- mind anaesthetised by sorrow and lips blued by the kiss of lunacy.
She questioned me. I told her about the dream. She managed a smile. I could see her facial muscles tense under the strain
AM I INSANE?

RKB