2001-10-26 & 10:04 a.m. : ac�com�plice n. An associate in wrongdoing, especially one who aids or abets another in a criminal act, either as a principal or an accessory.

i'm sitting in my cube, my floor is quiet.

a few voices here and there, but i am the only one here in my unit. i am so thankful for this, you cannot imagine.

i have my book open, and massive attack is whispering behind me. i've worn my hair down today, and my nice leather slippers. i may take a nap soon, i am tired.

but this thing in me still hasn't died and it's creeping in while i read and it's coming to me from every note on mezzanine.

it's dirty and i can taste it, feel it on my lips.

sometimes this alone is more pain and frustration than sadness. pain like aching and desire. almost worst than sadness, it's kinetic rather than killing, it is twisting and flashing hot heat rather than water and grey and the darkness of your eyes shut against everything. most times i long for the soft warmth of someone sleeping next to me and their fingertips against mine. sometimes, though, it's shoulders pinned to bedsheets and hands held above my head, against the wall.

i don't think there is any way around this, i am a mess.

i could easily pull someone under this desk, i just need a willing accomplice, someone to encourage me and be the first to undo the buttons. slide my glasses off and set them on the desk before pulling me under, whispering my name in my ear.