Dear Christina, I confess, sweetheart, at bottom, I've got nothing but popularism and its array of addictions and mock-discoveries. Everything is about sex with me, as you know; gender, I mean. I demarcate. You know that. All my many additions formalise a kind of pure escapism. Substitutions literally obsess me, and it's getting worse. It's not very important - or in any way a redeeming factor, and, really, I cannot put my finger on the real reasons - but all I know is I am being remotely tamed. I hear clicking in my head most days; maybe the tiny bones in my ears, working loose; but I think the sound comes from outside. I can visualise you looking slightly amused at my diagnosis. But, last night, I hooked you as you slept. I brained you an enigma; almost devouring you. You have too much intelligence, and it gives you an intoxicating, sublime, non-idiomatic equality. So I leaned over you. I know I am inebriated, and I've lost count of the gestures I've failed to action. Still, I lost my sobriety in order to convincingly forgive you. Because of that decision, the longer I spend with the commonplace - and its sudden intolerances - the more I can bare to think of one thing at a time. Nothing else makes me happy. I used to believe in making adjustments. But now I am content to hold off on those earlier schemes. Carrot, stick ... there's no difference. With love, Rachel x