Am I really that broken that I don’t see anything wrong with talking to myself through page after page of the written word? Have I become that self-indulgent? I suppose my Phoenix – as I liked to call him before the title was abused – was right after all. Maybe I am destined to roam alone through the capitals of this living, breathing thing I have dubbed Europe, until the day I finally draw my last breath of its history-saturated air. I cannot imagine a better end, to be sure.
New worlds were built on both our backs. I own my own to you – You! – who taught me how to write in verse and read in code, and then told me to leave all I’ve learned behind.
I would’ve gladly lived in any city: I have always been your whore.
See, how I rape your name in my lines! If I were as big of a woman, as defiant a rebel as you are, I would write in the first person exclusively.
But I am as big of a coward to need a whole continent to conceal me.)