I'll ask why, because I believe you can hear me ask. I'll not ask why, because I know the answer already.


Because there are terrible things in this world. Because any person is capable of behaving carelessly, and leaving a long, infected, invisible invisible invisible scar on a child... and the scar never heals completely, but is an effort to continue to treat every day of the rest of your life... and every other careless act inflames and infests it until you have no skin, and only one long, red, angry invisible lump of proud flesh where your soul once existed.

Because your brain is capable of killing the rest of you. Only too capable.

Because emotions are caused by chemical reactions and physical processes, and these can malfunction. Because you have moving parts, and you can break.

I cry for you, not because I knew you. I wish, I WISH I WISH I COULD HAVE KNOWN YOU. You wrote of pulling the trigger, and then remembering to remove the safety... I know the sort of mental categorization that has to take place in order for one part of your brain to find humor while the rest of it is continuing to downslide. You lasted as long as you did.

I can't accept any of it. I cry because I didn't know you, and I won't now. I cry because I am afraid. I cry because I am afraid.

I almost never met A. I love him as though he were a part of myself, as though he were the larger part of myself... and I almost never met him, because he almost did not survive the cruelty of his peers. It's close enough for me to cry. I love him, he is dark and handsome, he is a starling, a beautiful and shining person. He is still damaged, but I don't fear for him anymore... unless something like this happens.

SP was also a taut, lingeringly tormented man. He has someone now, someone to share love with, and I am glad. I am glad that he is sly, and happy, and still an outrageous flirt... I love him, he is a workaholic, he is beautiful and sensual and still not completely aware of it. I am so glad that I don't have to fear for him anymore... unless something like this happens.

T might have died during her school days as well. What am I to think? She is the most individual person; the epitome of confidence. She is heavy-lidded, sexy, relaxed, ribald. I love her, she is melted chocolate in a mug... I met her past the point of needing to fear for her, I almost believe that... unless something like this happens.

And there are SO MANY. The list never ends. And I am among them, but I can never die because I am too busy trying to hold them in my big stony hands... because every moment of my childhood that I felt I wanted to kill myself, it twisted around into the desire to kill those who were hurting me. I am not quite chemically sound, but there is something within me that survives.

Eco Eco, I love you. You, who call yourself fat and socially inept. Every word that falls from your typing fingers into the nodegel is perfect, it shines like a glass droplet, you have a gift with tact and sensitivity and kindness; and you also have a fabulous and undyingly horrible gift of skewering your own beautiful self upon a stake. I need you to be my friend, and I hope you remain so.

Quizro, you have been kind enough to spend some of your colossal intellect upon my paltry node scatterings. You connect me to a sense of belonging here, even though evidence suggests I don't have the dedication or proliferance of words to keep hanging around. Thank you. I will always be happy that you are alive in the world.

dustfromamoth, I love you dearly, though we haven't spoken much. You are our own dear bell-jar girl, you who do not think you are beautiful. I don't know if you ever got the feather or not... but I hope that your books turn out well. I hope you do not purposefully or accidentally slash your wrist. You play with death like a small cat that is fascinated by a butterfly attached to a thread. I fear for you. I know that I can not make you understand why I should care whether or not you die... but your writing is like an insane, wonderful orange dream, and I would be heartbroken to see the source brutally cut off.

And there are so many of you that I have spoken with, and argued with, and gotten advice from... and I love you all, and I don't want any of you to die unless it absolutely has to happen. Even then, I don't want it.

It just happened, and I can't get ahold of Joel. I can't get through the phone lines. He works and lives in Manhattan, and I can't get in touch with him. I can't find Joel. I can't find him. I can't find him. I can't find him.

So many dead.

There is horrible evil in the world. Horrible, horrible evil. I have to stop writing this before I hit twelve pages. I should go to work because Monica has people in New York and is doubtless going out of her mind. I am sick. I don't know what to do. I can't call Joel. The lines are busy.

Please God, no more death today.

6pm: I manage to get in touch with Joel's family; he is alright. He hasn't been able to call many people, obviously.

As regards those terrorists: almost any act can be carried out by a person who is willing to die to accomplish it. But I believe we already knew that, didn't we?