Back when I was young, drunk, communist I sold Marxism on the streets wearing a beret, and a head full of idealism. It was difficult to dodge the head lulls of dullness, but somehow I survived as an entire sector of humanity reassured themselves they were alive with strange pats on the backs, and constant "howdy howdy[s]." One night I was sucked into a conversation so dull I had to close my eyes and write secret manifestos in my head, and dream of intellectual music and that's when it hit me . . . I was one of them.

The desert won't leave me alone. It is my obsession. I want to eat sand, but I can't because I'm on a diet.

Tommorow is not Tuesday. I'm paranoid and writing fallacies on the wall.

I told her to get out of my head, but then she ran straight for my heart. I told her I wanted to try this love thing, and she headed straight for the door. That's when I became fascinated with sand and it's power to render the mind useless with it's charm.

Sirens=Sand

It's all sand. Not snow. Sand.

It all ends with sand.

I must fast now.

Close the door.

Or watch, I don't care. All I care about is sand now.

Amputate the model, and make it's arms out of heated sand. Glass.

Mr. Glass has no class. The children jeer, . . . it's because they have not been taught about sand and its regenerative power.

Torn flesh as the mountain crumbles.

We started in a raft, but then the river dried up and we wandered the desert. I was separated by the rest when a bird called my name, and I flew straight into my repressed memories of being a shaman for a cult I created while being held captive by my fears. It ended badly, and I think I am still mad at myself, but I've lost track of which one of my selves I was mad at. We've agreed not to war for the time being. My trial is set for late March. I will write you from the tunnel to let you know I am alright, but I can't really promise that the transmission will be clear. Just remember that they are watching. Close your eyes count to ten, but that doesn't really make them go away-- does it?

We got into the car and drove into a wall to make sure we were dead. It was then that we found God, or some manifestation of God. Or maybe it was a dream. I can't recall, but the impact was quite something. We've been living in the desert waiting, but no message has arrived and everyone is getting tired. Being dead is not easy because it's very much like being alive.

Take bits away. Tearing.

Fallen

Between .

Bring me home,

expression is painful--that's why I can only give it to you in parts.

As a man has a soul.