july 6th, 1971
the man with the patchwork heart, as i’ve come to know him, told me this story:

“my parents gave me a heart just like yours. but it was weaker then most and so it started to tear only a little bit on one side. so i tore out a page from my favorite book and pasted it right over the little crack. however, the very next month the paper had ripped and all the underneath was starting to look all black and old.

“so i started looking around and found another heart pale and throbbing in the street that no one was using. so i picked it up, dusted it off, tore off a piece i thought i liked (oh, how it screamed), and stuck it onto mine.
but even that wasn’t enough.

“and i guess from there, i could never get enough, i could only see the tiny cracks forming here and there. so i took pieces from pop up books, from movies, and from old torn up songs. and, yes, my ears became numb to the scream when i stole other hearts.

“when i got old enough to understand i started to fashion it into the heart i thought other people wanted. i made it pretty; dressed it up in fake silver and fool’s gold, and that even fooled a few.

“sometimes someone would come along and rip a piece off here and there, but i would never let them get too far because underneath it was still black and old.
and i assume it’s only getting worse under there.”

july 7th, 1971
sometimes i miss my daughter, sometimes she’s the only friend i have in this world. but i can’t ever go back now.