I wrote "Kill Yourself, Love with a Spirit of Revenge." I don't remember anything except that one afternoon at the end of a thunderstorm-filled summer in 2011, at my house in the French countryside, I threw myself onto the grass. In other words, "I lay down on the grass between fallen trees and had the impression I was carrying a knife with which I was going to bleed myself dry with a swift cut to the jugular." I remember getting up from the grass with my neck covered in blood, walking straight to my room, entering through the window, and sitting down to write the first sentence of what would become "Kill Yourself, Love." But that wasn't writing. What they call writing is a lie; it's something to be doubted.