Lately I've been struggling to speak—a chasm's appeared in my vocal register—all communications between 21 and 99 dB have been rendered inoperative, I assume it's all the crying. Under my current condition I've been forced to communicate by alternative means; smoke signals, alphabet soup, sky writing, icing the tops of cupcakes, dream insemination and gifts of hair products are but a few of my mediums. Mundanely, I've found that despite my great efforts I'm just as incapable of genuinely expressing myself as before I could scarcely eke out a whisper, the words come but the sentiment does not flow. But this variety of impotence is not uncommon here. I've found that for myself anything resembling my own contentment has been rendered unapproachable for so long that my orgasmic back-up has accumulated into a class-g threat, and I know that the moment I consummate my own desires I am going to die. No matter how hard we both try I cannot be induced into speaking of anything beyond the usual pleasantries or in the vaguest terms about myself because I know that the moment I step past this threshold I will never be able to stop myself again.

I love her—I hope that she can love me too and not just my face.