I am a nomad, a vagrant at heart.
I don’t want a home, I don’t want to know anyone. I just want solitude and to move, to be compelled to go and to keep going endlessly. I want to be ill and to be safe in my illness, to revel in it, to welcome it.
I want to always be on the train, to carry my entire life in a small bag, filthy. I want to seem threateningly disheveled to protective fathers and their children. It’s the addiction, the intoxication of a coward — too afraid to self-destruct, I choose instead to run, to run forever and ever, to run until I die alone and secretive and misunderstood, adolescent and self-indulgent.
Who will stop me? Nobody! But that’s a conceit, a show…