I want to leave the house. I want to live in the city. I want to write an endless novel and poetry. I want to ruin the house because it is not my home, anymore. It is not the painting that I made when I was five. I want to burn the house because it is not my home, anymore. It is not the prose that I've written when I was seven. And I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself because my little Cordelia couldn't write my memoir anymore.

It's Friday afternoon. I decided to leave the house. I'm the only one...