Dear Potamotrygorgeous,

After the first fancied and fenced letter was written, and I got a reply, a second letter was found. In trying to make sense of the previous expressions I uttered, I came to the conclusion that not(at)hing (not a thing?) is what it seems, and that being locked up is perhaps better if you are actually behind bars. Because then you see the boundaries within and after which you can be free. And you see that being far away is perhaps better to understand in amounts of miles then trying to explain the suffocating feeling of distance in a close contact. The flock knows all. But let me get rid of this scarf first.


The letter didn’t ask about age. It didn’t ask how age had affected some of the flock. Or whether age had polished or faded the glow in life. If all these things even didn’t happen, a certain sheep kept the next question to himself, perhaps I was lucky had he asked: “are you fun to be around?”


Instead he read the reply. It was in a language that makes sense of the word ‘lieve’. He called me his baby girl. I once admitted to him having that heart shaped key. He used it very wisely, only to open me up when was in dire need. All that subtlety for a hardened criminal! Would he allow me the letter? Again the baby girl. I shouldn’t be silly, he even stated he digs my stupid flat hair and found it horribly sexy, no.. change that word to extremely, since we both don’t like the oxymoronic sound. It’s not that the hair that is flat, it’s the scarf, hang on.


He flew in right in time. If only someone would have picked me up from the mähport! But confession sheep was too late to prevent what was said earlier. I stood in line, waiting at departure and arrivals. Wearing a sign, covered in post its. Some painful statements were made if the answer was to be found in the third letter only. That letter hasn’t been written, nor sent, nor read, nor replied to. I need a knive to cut through the rope around my neck, to let the vomit flow freely from my brains, hugging deep graves filled with gravity. Maybe it’s just the scarf, but get me that knife anyway, will you?

P1090646Knife one: If a doctor, at your request, performs assisted suicide, but does this by shooting or stabbing or strangling you, again, like I said: at your request, would you still call it ‘physician-assisted suicide’?


Knife two: Coercive regulation of your personal birth control is looked upon as morally odious and legally impermissible. I would then opt for treating the opportunity to practice death control as if it were an alienable right too Can’t see a thing anymore. Hold on for a sec.


*The rope is cut. The body falls.*


Knife one. Suicide prevention should be called differently, namely deprivation of humans of their natural right of death control.


Knife two. Why is deliberate harm to others a crime and is harm to the self considered a mental illness? When did language chance suicide into an actor that kills and the self-killer into the victim of a fictitious disease?


*The rope is cut. The body stands up.*


Knife one. If helping means aiding an individual advance his own interests, as he sees them, why then isn’t helping a person who wants to kill himself considered the same as helping him to read, write or cook?


The body is disoriented and falls down again. The body picks up the knife himself (thank you). The lips murmur that death is not a part of our life; only the idea of dying is. That death is only a part of our survivor’s lives. Must I cite the dictionary for you? Where it reads that ideation is just a normal noun, meaning the capacity for or the act of forming or entertaining ideas? Because if that is so, why don’t we have sex ideation, vacation ideation, eating ideation, divorce ideation? So, while folding the scarf I must ask a why when it comes to using the word ideation in combination with suicide only?


The body carves taboo’s in the wall.. It’s like scarring and it reads: You never remember that last kiss because you weren’t expecting it to ever stop, so you weren’t paying attention. Crums of concrete fall down while he scars.


I’ll put the fallen crums in this folded scarf, thank you very much.


Bye now.