Hello,

I think I am addicted to crying. Usually, I cannot express what is smashing around inside. But I found pleasure when you left me. I enjoyed the last hug—your sticky skin turned me sweaty, and soft, and androgynous. All of it felt confusing for a while. And then, quietly, I released the smallest sadnesses from my sinuses. Small enough to travel on dust, they felt like tiny living things with mitochondria, microtubules, and DNA of their own. When I did not cry, they sat inside me, growing and reproducing like parasites. I started to cry at everything. The smell of books. Beautiful people. How I spend all my energy pushing out what is wrong. All the membranes that are semipermeable within me. Why I let some things in, but not others. Sunlight on a windy day. Love in the stairways. Seeing you again. The moon and the clouds on a particularly cold night. Why did it feel so good? I think when I cried I felt like less of a Man. And that felt good to me.