1818.

A backward dance of
limbs, always breaking. Nothing
left. Stuttered movement.

1817.

My own ennui an
inheritance from the heart
that bore me. Fitting.

1816.

An emotion's slow
surgery. To search out the
disease, pervading.

1815.

Yet another year
passing into the mirror
with wishes heavy.

1814.

Again, today a
cacophony of joy. I
live. So just love me.

1813.

The worlds is made of
caricatures and we just
unfinished designs.

1812.

Bury me with my
puzzles so your version can
be reality.