In this week's (actually, that's debatable, as I have no concept of time or space) edition of New York Magazine, under the section 'Party Lines' was a picture of Patty Hearst and offspring partying it up. I wonder if she knows how much she means to me. If she did, maybe she would stop this bullshit. We could be happy together. Balmy summer evenings spent sipping lemonade, contented, listening to the orchestrated lullabies of sweet nature. I would hold her hand and be her confidant. And I would tell her that she didn't have to do this. To pretend that it wasn't worth fighting for. To never pledge allegiance to syndrome's of the public's imaginings. I would wipe the blood from her palms, because society was terribly hesitant and would rather it scar. But I know nothing of you. And how I jest over something tragic. Tsk Tsk, I wonder if she collects Americana. I don't think I would. Can we please go home now? I am tired of this. Of missing era. So I cut my hair, baby girl. Grow old, get married.