20.

Somehow she’d managed to put me under that spell most people call reality. Most of some people. A spell of the life is short variety. Perhaps it was my fault for making her think of death, regardless soon enough the trees were springing up like grass & we would be wrinkly by tomorrow. Every in-between seemed predictable, the future felt like something we could plan for. Even death, which is never not inevitable, seemed like something you could find on a menu.

One of the things it makes you want to do, seeing the rest of your life laid out for you, is to fill it with experiences, generate a variety of memories to make the time feel longer.

Most every day we’ll lie on the sofa after lunch & cuddle. Once you’ve cuddled one cuddle you’ve cuddled them all, haven’t you?

The mind just goes on drifting, like clouds. Only they’re not clouds are they? They’re exhaust fumes from the sacred boony rarebitz spicecraft. You can see his gentle essence in everyone, sense the presence of the dust-hidden stars. It must be some kind of hydrogen engine, quite right dear.

How do you show the invisible? I was asked that by an Irish-American shepherd in the night. I discovered him through his music, long slow minimal electronica that he audited while popping pills & smoking spliffs & tending sheep, always at night. Night shift shepherd. No-one had ever taught him music or magic, he just had it, it was part of how he cared, part of his being aware of a web he was part of, never more so than when he was alone. I guess his sounds were another kind of field, one with uncountable sheep in. How do you show the invisible?

The boony rarebit has died in this world & now travels through space. He has a photo of mummy & daddy in a heart-shaped frame on his dash. We are travelling through time to a death-like point — in fact it is more like a cut I have already made — a cut that is like the tiniest slice of time there could possibly be, this is the real missing time & it is no time at all. You make a slice like this in your life & Eternity plants a seed. This is the seed we shall carry through death & plant in turn on our new eden. If you know how to make yourself welcome how could you not be welcome?

Perhaps it is indeed a species of sublimation, if so it is an antidote to the poison of repression. I am not filing off my canines. I remain murderously raging & male, whatever else I am, whatever else I’m not. I’m not in control but I’m working with it, working with it like a person, working at it like a garden, working on it like a book.

The Absolute Cute is a new sublime for the 23rd Century, if you need one.

Sure I suffer from all kinds of delusion but none of them can touch the truth. Touch, the truth. How can you not feel you? Even disembodied I dream. Dream of people being kind to animals while people go on killing people, while slaughter machines rove — discombinate antiharvesters — while waves of whoevers break upon the walls, burn themselves alive outside the embassies.

I was glad I watched your video in the end my friend. You are clearly a lovely person whatever the character assassins say, just as clearly as they lack character themselves. You are good & kind & I hear your cry & understand your distress. I am grateful for that hug with your cindered spirit. I do not believe in a world that does not feel it.

I will ever have faith in who does.