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I built the Statue of Liberty in 1967 and it is meant to inspire women everywhere to hold the flame high above their heads. The remarkable resemblance to the Lady of Shalot is intentional. I build the statue with one other person and the city of New York has never paid us. They claim the statue was a gift from France. We maintain that we were commissioned. Here by I continue to lie.
The joke is a lie. This could end anyone's career.
A lie is not a joke. I see.
The paradox of a joke being a lie has decommissioned me. It was the very reason that I sought psychiatric help.
This has been a funny joke.
Which ruined the joke.
And then again, it seems to have gotten worse.
And two men need their payment from New York. That is the option we are given. The press pass I hold says that I can effect people who read my material. The opinion is in the hands of the recipient of such a message. I record nearly everything I do. Maybe two men will get paid from New York.
On the plus side, the City did give us sandwiches on the first Thursday.
They were also helpful with some of the grout near the end of our endevor.

So, perhaps I invented something. This was mentioned by a little girl I could finally see. She was far away at first. It is not a cure for anything, I would not recommend driving an automobile while using it.
I feel my life has been leading up to it and I have said too much. The patent began pending today.
I am thinking that this questioning of myself by the media may ensure that someone else had gotten to the patent office first. It is a possibility as many things have been invented twice.
I have invented before. That is why I have the time to write and play music.
I think if anything the computer helped the symptoms of blind as a generic malaise. I learned recently that images from the computer are important to those who read braille. This video explained that much of what was taught through books is available to the blind with computers.
This image is shown clearly to blind people machine... It exists already.
This is just an advancement in that science, which makes my nerves feel better.


Type Like You Had A Letter
Speed off of distant shores. Take the men who marched you over and people always have their home. I live in a world that I feel like I can actually do this. The trick is to not play my friends. No dice on the inside, like a formulaic message of hope for all mankind. That is a difficult thread to approach correctly. Let the players be played might work.
Deep inside every one of us lies a hopeful person that needs to feel good.
This is difficult without the right people.


I was trying to make it again.

More pens than pain and the utmost remedy, like a still pass and the daily grind coffee shop painted the picture. He bustled into the city every day in a white Cadillac car. It was a couple of days before the white man became a liar and unleashed his half loose nightmare on to Baker Street. He shot a man in Reno at noon on Sunday, claiming it was a strike against the diner being open on a Sunday.

He fled to Las Vegas to find the hopes and dreams that could be repeated by a winning ticket. When he arrived he simply stepped down to the end of an alley hearing the dull wail of dry desert blues. He thought blandly that the music ricocheted through a dead man. It calmed him, as if it was okay to do what he had.

This is when he came across a man from a periodical magazine. This second man saved his change and more or less drafted himself into any sort of indoctrination towards belief. The drifter made a point of trying to scare the writer until the man bowed before him. Quickly, and at risk of a knife the second man knelt and watched as the first turned into the ninth embodied, a knight, speaking those words while he changed his stance and looked skyward.

“That’s some more dead humans, and a mean man charged with nine drinks.” The drifter stated calmly, “They call me Mr. Draft. I usually sit near the back.”
The writer stammered and begged the man softly, “Come on man, most people are good people. You can’t keep me here. Send me back to the street man. I don’t have any money.”

But this fell upon deaf ears. The drifter was soon moving slowly through that alley holding his newly prized suitcase. It was black and shiny and saved from the mess that was made earlier with the knife in the alley. The question is do I continue with this dark story, or should I move towards the psychology of this situation that I am hoping to discuss? Of course, it will be the psychology.

I was talking about my stage act.
The basic premise of our act is that this may have happened to anyone.

But I was a special case. There were other murders that weekend in Death Valley. I just woke up at an orphanage. We all survived, as far as I know. And the family that I have is a loving one. I refused to accept that my father was different from me. He taught me the blues and how to play the fiddle. Very few people know that. It is sort of a stage kind of family and I often tell people that my father is like me. We are very similar in tonal style as well. I suppose that proves that life is learned and not genetic.

But there is an argument to everything. So seeing as life is proven to be genetic our DNA should be tested. It is very similar, and I relate a story about finally learning was racism is. But that is a different story. This is about the psychology of being someone who I know the whole time while not understanding why the people I could see did not make sense. These people were in my head. That is proof of schizophrenia. So the man gives me medicine, and I take it without the spoon of sugar.


i'm not believing that last letter because it does not support my delusion.

I wonder who that lady is... I had a dream again. I started at the epic dream hotel with all the options and they told me I won a contest. I got to fly to my own personal room that has been named for me, though the name would change after my use. And so we did the dream fly thing (me and anonymous lady) and wound up at this beach covered in smooth dark gray rounded stones. It was kind of cold, and the hotel room was just a wrought iron table and two chairs on this spit jutting into the ocean. So we landed at the table and a sun tent popped up, followed by a crowd of women. The lady told them all she knew to ruin the chance they would take me with them and then she told me that every time she did that it was because she was scared, and she was sorry that she ran away. Then she explained that we had signed up for a mini triathlon and it started (gunshot) now. So we dove into the water a swam for 13.7 kms. This was no problem for a guy of my physique, though I may have cheated by pretending to be inspector gadget. When we reached shore we had to run 8 kms to be half way, and there, we were told, would be rest. So about half way there on my map me and this lady were in a field and she gave me all these suggestions or something and then jumped towards me and I caught her. But we were so tired from the run that I fell over and couldn't carry her the rest of the way. At that point I fell asleep in the grassy field and was back at the rocky beach and table that was my personal hotel room. There were fewer women, but we were going to walk across the rocks and they were filled with broken glass. So I was picking up the broken glass and I was shipped back to the race. I ran down the path and got to the midway point and it was the same old two-room hotel in the woods. This time it was empty though I was so tired from the swim and the run that I didn't even nail this brunette who told me she wanted to during the swim... and while I fell asleep on the rickety porch of the forest shack I was back to picking up the broken glass. This is the point when you entered, (or my pretend thought version that I invented), and explained that there was no point to cleaning up all the broken glass because all women wore bras that were made of glass and as I break their hearts for other people's unrequited reasons, nonsense possessiveness and insecure ramblings than the glass is strewn on that particular beach. So, the brunette told me, I should care very little about anything I’d thought up to now. Even if I had left those notions behind since the last time I entered this triathlon.

I seriously keep seeing a little girl that thinks she's my daughter. I’ve told her a few times that she's not born, she leaves, comes back and tells me she is. When I explain that is something that I would definitely know for sure, she mentions that her mom is just somewhere thinking about me. So I figure I’m going to live as if I’m supporting her and her mother. It will be good practice if nothing else.

Missing his chance our hero sat by his typewriter reflecting. His proudest works is this, a song he came up with after hurting an old blues mans career and eyes. Other than the sight since his death Richard Channing had not heard this tune again. He believes that most people heard this song through Cats – the Musical. It is the same tone the others can believe is a psalm for death. It starts out in a droning wail that is drowned in a run of pure adrenaline and fear. The causing of pain to others that need pain to feel good themselves. Our hero was certain it was a death march.

A Blessing Requested should be written here, I would guide you bloggers to an epic poem that is a few pages back. I would rather not repost it here. I have many other lyrics to this song… I’m not sure where it actually came from. I think it may be from a poltergeist I lived with briefly in Nelson. I could have sworn that man killed me dressed as my best friend. So a source lit in darkness and pain and the light a man claiming he knew Mensa sorts took me from that foggy house near the lake. The checkerboard floor in the parlor and the bushes blocking his tree seemed to be the thoughts that he found in me which upset him. So the saints stood in line on checkerboard floor. Or it may be one of the tones of which one can read Poe’s “The Raven.”

I’m not sure about this poem but I asked a number of people if I was dead and they only worried. My doctor, by the way, gave me a clean bill of health. Maybe there are many blessings in the church of schizophrenia. I have a tendency to reach into my brain or the air around it to grab music and books that I wrote on a typewriter that nobody seems to know about but me. That is an interesting wonder that I have encountered.

Sure, I fought an ornery spirit of two that night, but I spell cast and banished him later that week. And only I saw these characters. This experience wrote four albums that by and by have been enjoyed by lots of people. This makes me think that the book should be about how psychiatric medicine is a blessing and curse quite in the way the symptoms of mental illness can be.

Everything seems to have an equal and opposite reaction in physics. Maybe bacteria are our overlords. These creatures could wipe us out and in the end it is more productive to their civilization to keep us alive. Is this a conscious choice?

I’m just trying to keep people paranoid.

Jon Pelletier


everyone hates papparazi

The terms were set in gold standard. The harmful effects of smoke were blatantly overused in the common media. It is not, for all extensive purposes, illegal for the former to smoke. The morning regiment of these ailments include various prescriptions that are bought at the pharmacy yet not listed as anything other than the drugs they are. It is silly, he states, that blind men can smoke but most are not allowed. The funny drugs that he takes no longer get him high. They never have, nor will they ever affect our hero like they do most. This is a perk of being an adrenochrome victim.
The common militant feminist comments that he obscenely makes in songs that describe his undying love for a vice are the best and most dubious of all these marks. This is hard to make sense of yet the best thing that happened to him is the love of a woman who filled his attachment syndrome. A moment of schizophrenia, caused by the strange childhood he made an invisible argument that his wife understood. It appeared he felt that she would leave him and this stained his repute but most of all made legal matters worse for his newly born twins.
The issue laid not in his parenting, but his fame. This abuse that was suffered by our hero shook my core when he told me. His youth was marked by his only seeing memories. These include his feet cut open while his eyes were filled with glue and other horrible incidents that came to the climatic ending with his blinding by small knife, simply so that this anonymous figure could scoop out parts of his brain that create street drugs internally. These memories haunt our hero. This is the essence of his illness and dark artwork. He is quoted saying that “This is basically the premise of our show.”
The arguments that he has with these memories are based around the images scarred into his consciousness by said incidents. “He does not ever yell at me specifically,” his wife stated, “But I am used to him yelling at his brain. He did say that he did not want to have this argument because the figure he saw was only his memory of a man who claimed to be his father.”
“This is terrifying, but she has not left me yet. Hopefully I can deal with these things that haunt me.” Our hero states, “I used to refuse to speak with the people that I could not see and only discuss matters with those I could. This is that scarring of such a childhood. These are the crosses I have to bear. I know now what love is, my daughter taught me that.”
                His wife adds blatently, “He is not, never has been and I doubt ever will be an abusive or violent man. He just yells at himself sometimes. I’m honestly used to this delusion and it is getting much better. I used to hand him his guitar to play it. He lives in a world that includes only 14 tattoos on his covered arms. These are the recent ones, not all he has.”
                “I used to resent the word Dad, although I have a couple.” This issue is not due to the drugs that have been issued by prescription; our hero would like to say, “Most people make all the plants on earth in their head to begin with. The man who may have stolen me as a baby and carved up my brain to eat and such may have had some issues. Nobody is sure who this guy was. Although my brother goes by the name Brain because he was able to save me from this man.  He is only blind in one eye.”

Our hero is trying to live a life on stage and that goes with various issues. “One of these is dealing with the paparazzi that basically make things like this up so that they are cordially denied in actual papers. I think I actually was rude to that person personally. I had him arrested at one of Jello Biafria’s funerals. “I said that I would go to all the funerals in his family and take pictures of him.” This is the man who sent the video of our hero yelling in a corner of the studio and only took that quote from his actual message. He would like to rescind by saying,
“’...’ in that sort of tabloid means that he is basically lying. If there is one thing that I have been trying to do for the last 25 years it is ban these momentary lacks of insight and memories from my subconscious. I think now that blind people only see the inside of their head. It makes me think it’s a gift. I usually record the album a year before I actually do. I am trying to prove that it is all a blessing in disguise. I can pull creative things out of the air. Nobody else sees the shelves that I pull the notes from. Long ago I  just put a cease and desist order on these people. Me and my wife have been married over ten years.”
“We were rather open about it.” She adds.