Ellie. My name is Ellie. I want to be a writer. I want to be a star. I want to be free. I imagine myself riding on wide open roads, on the back of a motorcycle with a boy who is as much of a ghost as he is a person. I imagine myself dazed in rooms filled with a purple glow. I imagine pills, lust, liquor, leather. I want to live forever and I want to die young. My name is Ellie. I don’t know what home means; I don’t want to. I need people to love me. I will break all of their hearts. I imagine late nights in underground clubs… Marlboro, rock & roll, Howl by Allen Ginsberg–the bible. Tanqueray; falling down in a graveyard muttering in Romanian, hoping for salvation, but while I’m called an angel night after night I’ve got the devil in me. Rosewater runs through my veins, the blood has already been spilt. I won’t ever belong to anyone, not even myself. When you have the knowledge that nothing’s real it’s hard to do what’s expected of you. I relate to flowers a lot. They’re beautiful, but they don’t last. Sometimes no matter how hard you try to take care of them, they just run out of life. I think I ran out of life the day I was born. Everything is nothing. The gods don’t want you to know that, but that is the one truth.