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27 My฀Dearest฀Conflict, Urged,฀I฀chose฀to฀celebrate฀the฀body with฀rocks฀and฀stilettos. I’ve฀hollowed฀the฀tips฀of฀my฀bullets.฀I’ve฀poisoned the฀mouthwash. Look฀at฀these฀hands—at฀the฀heart, they’re฀contemplating฀God.฀God,฀they฀think,฀can฀drop a฀branch฀without฀warning. Spare฀me your฀sympathy,฀dearest.฀Spare฀me the฀discretion฀of฀an฀overdone฀murder or฀the฀secret฀of฀the฀sinister฀man฀you’ve฀willed฀me. What฀good฀is฀it฀to฀be฀overdone฀without฀the฀rest฀of฀the฀story? What฀good฀will฀you฀be฀with฀your฀hands฀behind฀your฀back and฀your฀legs ฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀bound฀as฀in฀predestination? Think—rain.฀Think—a฀man฀in฀a฀black฀shirt฀at฀the฀back฀of฀the฀bus. There฀are฀eyelids฀at฀work฀here. ฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀Dearest฀.฀.฀.฀Dearest. Let฀drive฀the฀rock฀you’ve฀sharpened฀to฀fury.฀Let฀fly฀the฀blade to฀my฀suspect฀body.฀I฀suspect฀everything฀will฀thank฀me฀for฀this. So฀thanks.฀Again,฀thanks. ...

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