Freedom is on the page… it’s in the cloud… anyone can find it if they only want to look, and I want them to look. I want people to see me as I am for the first time, and not this man I’ve projected with all his misleading silences and blank facets that never show the colour and the vibrancy and the cold, shining hurt that murders me every day that I live. Freedom is in the moments when I am not out in the world, but locked in my solitude, or hidden among the trees and standing beneath the high sky with all my wounds ventilating into the dazzling ozone. I can’t be connected with all this chatter…. My mind is fucking every woman on the planet and my heart is stashed somewhere warm and dark, and all I’ve left is a hole in my chest. My god, how can I recover from this?