Due to utter chaos in life and mind. I’ve headed back to writing you a letter. Specially since it has occurred to me that time is running out before you move. As I write you now, I’m waiting for two girls. Ex-roommates of an ex-girlfriend. To move into my place. Morgan. And Amanda. Probably pregnant. Not mine. Daughter of a homeless tweeker. Or as we say back on the right coast, a Speed Freak. Thank god for my anti-depression medication. Or else I’d be writing form the nuthouse. Jail. Or overdose. Shit, it’s been crazy here. Just the way I like it. Of course I got involved with the wrong girl. Alex. I think I spoke to you about her. She of the two year old son who calls me Daddy. Beautiful. Intelligent. Caring. Supremely motivating. Spiritually gifted beyond her knowing. Completely shielded by lies. Deceit. Neuroses. June Miller. She has lied to me form about day five. Stolen money from me. Taken the rope that I handed her to haul away her chaos and used it to hang me. We had a fight. She said she never wanted to speak to me again. That lasted a week and a half. Closer to two. Now the same games have begun anew. The lies. The other guys. While loving me more than she can handle. So she runs away. Attempt to prove to herself that she is the shit her parents abused her into believing, as a child. She is an internal contradiction. Two feuding personalities. The one of hope. The one of self-destruction. And I can’t help loving her for it. Like no one I’ve ever met before. Such unbelievable Possibility. Unchained untamed beauty. Today two of her girlfriends are moving into my place. To stay only a little while, theoretically. While they get their feet on the ground with new jobs. Zeno would be so proud. Life so original. Let the games begin. What the hell am I doing here? Creation or Destruction? Where is the difference? Perhaps all those half cents of interest and pay lost in the computers. Needless to say. But I will anyways. All the silliness has given space to much writing. Too much perhaps. I’m about 50 pages behind in getting handwritten drafts into the computer. I have the first 20 pages of the book in. And it keeps transforming as I go. I’ve decided that the separation of everyday writing and book writing is stupid. So now they have been combined. Created an imperfect circle. Random. Stupid stories. The leapfrogging timeline tracing time in my life up to now. And what happens every day. All side by side. Layered. meaning the book will end where it begins. It will end with the fight with Alex. Where it begins. After the story about the six foot talking purple ostrich from outer space who informs me that I don’t exist. Shit. Hell if I know if I can pull all this off. Sounds beyond me. But who can tell. The perfection of Dostoyevsky, and the chaos of real life. Life is beautiful. Virtual reality. Fun and games for everyone. Undiscovered dimensions. Christopher Columbus. Maro Polo. Neil Armstrong. You ain’t got nothing on me. Before I’m done I’ll have escaped Time and Space. The triviality of physicality. Don’t believe the lies your biology teacher spoke. Merely a costume ball for the spiritually retarded. Deconstructionism. Too negative. I’m rambling again. Nothing new under the sun. So the saying goes. So it is. I wish I could have a glass of wine. But it’s off to work. Me, not the glass of wine. The drone of bread in the belly. Surrender to Biology. Concession.