Sire, Spire, Fire, Crier

Few things to fortify myself. Spending the morning in bed with Sharon Stone in 1996's Diabolique. Politically distant, obscured to me. The bleach blond red lipstick chain-smoking vintage pantsuit thing definitely got to me in a kind of washed-out post-Courtney Love vibe. The image of Sharon Stone as she becomes herself. One reiterates oneself. I feel like I've eaten nothing for the last week but ground glass. Image of the wronged woman, double-crossed and still lonely. I identify. I'm an identifier. I can place myself in her steely gaze like I'm pissing as it were into a river. Better yet the sea. Guess which one.