There's a hole in my wife's life that she can't ever seem to hide and that I can't ever seem to fill up. Even when I make an effort to make love to her instead of just fuck. I can't help but wish I was somewhere else, that I was someone else's husband, that it was Carlotta Cosials I was fucking. Sometimes I wonder if I just wasn't built for loving. If I was built for nothing. I can't say that I've ever felt part of something - my head is here but I've always felt it's belonged next to Sylvia Plath's in the oven.