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Depression hits here like a retarded bat attempting to exist a closet. I’m stuck on a city bus from hell going backwards into time. Imagine if Jules Verne took that one toke too many. I’m that odd Frenchman in Hogan’s Heroes glued to radio. Though I can only accept messages on mine. No outgoing. Received an important message from Radiohead – “just like an angel, your skin makes me cry”. If I were you & you know me, perhaps you might not want to reveal yr present location. Just kidding. I’d be stuck on a street corner babbling, “they’re eating people, soylent green!” or perhaps I’ll tell all of thing 1 thing 2. Either way Dr. Doolittle my patron saint.

Reading Brutal. Relating to gangsters. Oh the joy of cracking heads. Wiping the world of fuckwads. Why isn’t there a movement against square people. Where do they come from? Too dull for circumstances. Not everyone needs to be out there. Some contrast. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s here. If it’s not on tv it doesn’t exist. I’m back in high school. So I will tuck my bat under mother’s hats & wait ‘til dawn to howl. Or dinner. “Ding dong bell pussy’s in the well. Who put her there?” Your skin does make me cry & just knowing we’ve touched…I do actually enjoy smashing pallets. Yuk. Now bad music. Oh well. I’m off to la-la land.

Later.