I thought of her-- image and all--
inner monologue running thru my
head as my retinas crawled through
-out the desert-- and imagined, realized,
saw I was no longer in love-- what she
had done made her seem like an anybody
passing the trainspot platform with nothing
but a sideways glance. All whilst my eyes
established themselves to the Cinecenta screen,
Lawrence of Arabia bathing in masochism and
blood, the evil of insanity, and admittance: "even
worse, I enjoyed it."

even worse, there are some who enjoy it,
killing their darlings.