. . .

That did it

None of that none of that none of this or the other as well. Back in the stacks back on the street fuck! So beautifully manic and no one to share it with inflict it on.

Up until around a minute ago I was pacing nudly around my apartment muttering at top volume to meinself. (I'm lying. Sorta. I was wearing a long shirt, socks, underwear and The Cane. Then I realized I was going to be spending time writing you. So to make it the truth, I removed the shirt and underwear. Kept the socks, though. My feet get cold easy. Then I paced nudly around my apartment muttering at top volume to meinself. This is art.)

I'm not going out tonight. I'm not right for making new people just now. Nathan is out of print. The other crazies in the area aren't the right tool for the job either I know them too well or not well enough. You. You are my herd of drug-crazed nymphos. Come to me. I will feed you of gelatin and soulwine.

It needs more than a rapier. It needs a microphone in the microphone at top. The Cane, you fools! Pay attention! Thus when I am crooning top selling singles into it, I can be heard by a wide voluminous. Also, it needs to glow with the light of a thousand suns. The Cane Of Ra. I like it.

I think I have come down with a terrible disease. I haven't realized my freedom in a moment in a while. Any nonfreedom is selfinflicted and selfabsorbed, and can be retracted at will. Simply remember this, and all will be well. I'm agoing atrippin' afterwards. Aroad atrippin'. Going to see the Florida Keys. This time successfully. Either that, or I will be sufficiently stupid. Either is fine. Either makes for disturbing anectodes afterwards. Must get phone numbers.

The Plan is working. Trust The Plan.

So if you want to know why I've invaded Poland, this is it.

Next time: less linear!