" '97 I blacked out, who's been paying all my rent?"

Phone's been in the shop for a week or so, sorry if you've been trying to get ahold of my lazy ass. Shouldn't be a problem from here on out.

So it seems like every week they've got me holed up in some hotel room, feigning expertise and hiding my buzz. Tonight I'm in the SLC soaking up nothing, last night I walked around Boise with this girl in the smiling visage of the full moon. This girl, man. I hope I can stay in Boise for a couple weeks straight upon my return. I'm getting the urge these days to stay up late and ride my bike home in the frost and dark, hints of orange sunrise just out of view. When I make it home I write poems about the promised land and the indistinct nature of the truth, immediately casting them into the trash for the CIA to find. There's something about those moments.

I drove across some beautiful country today, by myself, listening to Kool Keith and thinking up ridiculous stories. Characters and places and events, boiling in a microcosm that somehow explains the surreal world we live in. Simple symbols for something inexplicably complex. At every kink realizing that the truth is far stranger than any fiction I could create.

I'm simultaneously reading the "Autobiography of Malcolm X", "Invitation to a Beheading" by Nabokov, and "The Extended Phenotype" by Dawkins. I have dreams about doing bong hits with the writers in a parking garage. They agree on everything and when I wake up I realize that the revolution will in fact be on television, but it will not arrive as some pedantic telethon, but rather in a multifarious rush of conflicting truths. Crackheads executing senators, scientists escaping in pods, shamans astral projecting to somewhere with more readily available opium.

The answer is none of the above, if someone asks, because we haven't even figured out the right question yet.