She writes these letters to me. Each page is stained with her scent and when I hold them to my nose every part of my body tingles as if she’s right by my side. Among the pages are drawings of red dragons and butterflies and what appears to be expressionist portraits of her lady parts. She uses a varied selection of vibrant colours within each one, and her flair for the exotic interests me very much such is the exquisite tone of every stroke of her pencil. She is a flower at the foot a tower. The Dark Tower? Maybe, but then again maybe not. As a treat, she inserts the tips of several cigarettes into her body and then wraps them in tissue paper before sending them to me along with her words and drawings. She wants me to taste death twice, you see. It’s considerate yet perverse, and it warms my heart. As I smoke them reading her manifestos concerning the hidden landscape of the female form, the transformation from day to night is almost complete. Transformation is what we desire above all else. From girl to woman and lover to writer. From the belly of the beast to the beast itself until we become what we once feared and fear what we once were. The older I become, the more apparent it is that love itself is the devil, because if there isn’t madness and obsession in each kiss, I don’t want to know. If my world isn’t balanced on a knife edge when I’m not in her arms, then in her arms do I not belong.