A friend of mine died the other day. She jumped out of a third floor window and landed on the driveway, hitting her head on a car and breaking her neck. It's all very sad but i am yet to cry. I think the part of me that deals with this kind of stuff is lost. So I am numb.
She was a writer. Like me.
Only she actually had something to say. She had a voice, and a vocabulary to compliment it. She never had to... ummm... consider her words to the degree that I do. Everything I write is a lie anyway. It's a compulsion of mine. Or maybe that's a lie. Even I don't know anymore.
Last night a girl i knew died.
I bet she left a brilliant note.
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