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Life is fleeting as you count sixteen gold skulls is another mans book and claim that you wrote it. It is the connection between cigarettes and mania. Covering up that it’s harming your body may create delusions. So I wonder whether all those who smoke are crazy or if all those that are crazy choose to smoke.

And these are my bold paragraphs.
So I wonder aloud who I am as a writer.

It is possible that I died and chose not to accept it. I lived a wonderful life in a town called Summerland and I can think of nothing but hard times before it. But what is it that I am trying to say. A pseudonym like Hector from Jabberwocky doesn’t really ring bells with people in Whitby, sir. That is what the postman said. These are all just delusion of the highest order. Pay attention to your shipments. Keep yours bases covered.

But covering your tracks hoping that someone loved me in a past life is sheltered and blue of me. I can’t take time for myself anymore; I can’t find the words to pass me through these bland old bus shelters. I have tried for years to be someone that people like to pass through for humor or strange insights. I need more characteristics. It seems any of the readers are laughing for these are the rambling trails of a schizophrenic. I find that sharing my thoughts with people seems to sooth them.

I need to find shelter from my internal storms as they are all self inflicted. A much cooler man would have shared a harrowing journey, cats that jump and bounce and play for some, that would have been better. But I am the kind of guy that writes an entire book and waits too long to rewrite it. A true writer needs to be watched. He also needs something besides his own internal wars to talk about.

The key is to leave this train of thought. I am not that interesting. It has been 10 years since the day I decided that I would be a smoker. In that time I have told myself many things but capped the moment off with the lie that smoking cigarettes really isn’t that bad for me. Since I started this action my days have been rife with far more ups and downs than most. Is this my own chemical imbalance? I wonder if it truly had cropped up since my infatuation with tobacco began.

I don’t remember these nervous rickets before then.

My smoking has made me outside the general community as I nervously try to decide where my next pack is coming from. But these are my own social rules and I admit I create the world I live in. This world is rather good, but one might add that the expense of buying these smokes far outweighs any benefit to smoking. So I tell myself that I should quit. But I don’t.

This procrastination stinks with the other ideas that I cannot change my habits. These ideas stay with me from day to day, creating a foul air about me. It may be the very chemicals in the cigarettes. I think it is the denial. It is best to say that if I truly wanted to quit smoking I would. So do I like the habit? No, I want to quit.
And this mania that I stay in seems to have began with that phrase.

I am a stubborn old kook, level headed at most occasions and for ten years found with a coffee and cigarette. I am twenty-five years old and only began smoking at age fifteen. It was a thing to do to make me cooler. This didn’t work. I feel that it is a habit that reminds me of both good and bad things, mostly of wasted youth and primal triumph.

I have been diagnosed schizophrenic since the age 15 as well when I started to find that I was having delusions of grandeur and mashed nonsense. I thought things were coming to an end for a bit, but it seemed to balance out finally one time with a cigarette.
Once I remember thinking that we were finally one, the cigarette and I. Making time to practice every day for a year I could finally claim to puff like the rest of them.

This was bad planning on my part, but I think the best thing to do is allow extra words in drafts now. Because the best things in life are free but the rest of the world needs to earn their own money. The delusion that sings now is the one that you are simply an old man compared to your crafty youth. A twelve year old me would have never thought that I would be here.

For some reason I am trapped in a thought and can’t get out of it. This is because of non-compliance with reason and a dream that you were wouldn’t you. The grandeur in the statement is off. It seems true. The question remains, does smoking make one simply delusional or do the delusional simply smoke more frequently?

And there is a societal gap, too. “So what have you done?” She asks, “What is your occupation?” I have little to reply except, “I am a smoker.”


saving grace

The saving grace and all the other instances that led to this peculiar definition.
I am unsure of the others. The dilemma is to just write fast enough to edit using the spell check that let me in the first time. Otherwise it is just pants less drama.

I have been a person without medication and acting like a loon for about five years now. I refused to accept that there was anything wrong. When I finally decided to ask, for the most part they told me the answers that I wanted to hear. It was a strange vacation that led me to their care. I am very glad those people were there to pull me out of the haunted building that caused my quick and immediate demise. That was worst-case scenario.

The best case was that I had worked vigilantly to create a body of work that I could be proud of and I was speaking to people who were not there. This happened again last night. I remember ranting and raving for the last few years mindlessly, bridging the psyche’s gap for myself and then acting in silly and stupid funny ways. Sometimes my art was tremendous, but to the real of my friends I was acting like a fifteen year old who began to live at twenty-five and began to beg for my saving grace.

A saving grace is one of those complex ideas that mark the path that anyone takes in light and happy sovereignty. My saving grace has always been music. And this mania has led to a very good place where I realize that I should listen to the doctors. When I had been up for a week talking about those strange things like AIDS has been made in a lab and our shadowy rulers being anyone but the trees or the whims of the great magnet it was me in a manic state.

Our shadowy rulers are the mountains and the trees because we have the free will to listen or not to any manic man who had been radio before his fuzzy state. I hope those that read and listened to my manic and rude musings about such cruel things as the home that Richard Channing destroyed while being scared to be gay will realize that I am just telling lies on stage. It is what I do.

I have imagined our leader to be some cruel nemesis mostly because he has decided that he should wield power over me. This is common. So just as he had told us that we are not committing war crimes I should add that I look at the world differently than most. The doctors have proclaimed that I look at the work I have done wrong. I honestly didn’t think anyone was listening.

The doctors that know me say the cure is to work on my music and media. And that is important, because I can’t be sure what I said while thinking I was a still around King of Spain. I met interesting people and made a long progress out of these thoughts. The background is an actual schizophrenic. I have to admit that now. I was just on the train I planned with my friends. We played music every night. Before my father told me that was all a lie. He said the doctors were not to be listened to and that I must respect him. If there was one thing that I can do is that.

 My saving grace is this article.
Still Alive,
Jon Pelletier


The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is surely a body of work.
There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see.

That world is just a distraction. The world I see is a momentary lapse of reason and thought. That world is mandatory and the other worlds are not real was my belief.
I had regressed about six years ago and I could not be the man I wanted. It was a constant struggle of good and evil, I thought I had passed. I suppose I thought that before but I thought that now.


This should be taken as an open summary on life and everything because this book is about the new beginnings and the world revolving around the low watt light bulb.

This is the sort of diagram that a siren named Lost Tiger devised. She would discuss life and everything with interesting people all day and get paid for it by the government. The idea relied on an eternal soul though she was she had very small answers when asked by her husband. They both found it better that way as they rarely came to the slightest bitterness in their voices during their discussions, which included the world as it lay in a box and some little caves that surrounded the very real mountain.

They say there is gold in the caves, hidden during the last passing band of Juggernauts that by now are far into the backcountry and singing their merry songs. But all the common country folk avoided the land of the Juggernauts. This particular troll was strange and an avid learner so all the back trade letters that and the other temped you empty. Formal words and that little rose that made him more like a devil and tired in the heart. The poetic justice that needed to help the people was 60 years in the past and they now lived in peace.

Each side had great heroes and in the end of the recent one hundred years war they simply could not recall who had struck first. The mothers of children regaled stories of the heroes in the hat room or barrooms to sustain brawls between two men of the same race in order to keep the metaphysical balance.

Two other men are charged with an offence where needles and monikers reined.
They needed to be battle weary and play tunes to a different tone. The best men knew where and why they needed to crawl. But the phenomenal to mention is about these two children, but the book should not be like them at all. The man wanted to leave stage for a while and write. He is allowed to do that. And maybe he will be with grace. Perhaps he can carry the old world draft roads and quarries that lined the route to where the great battles had their end.

For sixty years ago two men like Sampson were born on either side of the long valley and each became king among the valley dwelling men.

The nomadic trolls are awkward and subtle and little else. All parties are at peace though they know they are stronger. Or there is a wizard and he is saying nothing to the men. I see him real and modern like the pest that would go away. His manners are Soviet and he carries a light goatee, and light to the touch he is briskly walking my way.

I have little else to be less than a socialite and blessed in the touched of everything worn. They tell me my name and I am left to the house and they march in and take care of the champagne. This had to be work, it had to be real and if it was not funny than it could not be for children. It could be for children and the children that came next, they are whom this tale is about.

The latter part spent for the mention of sentences slept and an ounce over the snide bouncing is out. The martyrs are conscious and light their old ounce with it and he past the dockside in a drab little stride and looked as the bouncers led another drunk man out the bar. It was too early in the morning for a character like that. He must have been up all night. They were elders and humble about their beginnings. He had little red cigarettes bounced before his eyes. I had nothing of the sort. All that he gave to me was his regret. He said he sounded rather like a musician in there, I’ve surmised.

And letters where there should have been men and letters that they had about a drafted colleague that lived in Festin too. The place that nary a man left in Festin was made for a message or moniker still. The parameters left in a world such as this could be foggy cold days and much time spent inside. The drip on the rain from the large tumbling pines lets him settle and be right tonight. He felt better than he ever had. He never knew the war, and had met many Juggernauts in his travels. He felt like an outsider over there but no one truly tried to harm him. There wasn’t the hate they told him their used to be. He had told him they used to be because of the men that she’d rather fancy.

The hairpiece he had was a metaphor for the symbolic relations of fierce accusations that led the people to believe that only a few men had accomplished that much. If otherwise occupied men settle in they have Montreal mindsets and are much better for it. They symbolize the nomenclature that haunted this desk and the typist of these words. The Trident stood strong and exterior agents felt wrong those words held his wrists as if it laid some sort of prayer. The chief and his men approached a dropping point and needed to bury all that they had. These metal machines are behind me and they leave their old rocking horse pastures that push you from the edge. This world was lit by on single light bulb, and the unruly men had their hands on the power.

So fear him, no I would never fear him. I have all my faith in the church. They will and always have been right. Do the right thing. Hold your heart strong and you will flutter but the nonsense is quivering and lit by this light bulb. It was all he had. Without the bulb he had nothing. Yet it scared him, he would have rather had nothing. These were the ones who walked away. These however drastically needed to make this man over. All those that settled his wary soul. Breathless she replied, “I will.”

Only the pattern in my mind holds me back. The spinning of the looking glass and her awkward medicine that needed to lay down the open in doors and freeways and the like a bit of the answers that sheltered his mindset they wanted to be fair and were monitored by the license that held their vase open and needed the overrun to be lit by the fire. But this meant they would go too slow. Or would they run to fast? It was something in the middle. They knew not, but this trip would be somewhere around average in every aspect.

Nothing to vicious went array. Jack Platt would have it the other way. They all sat in line waiting for Jack. He was late often and wore a suit with a black fedora. “Everything looked better through a black fedora,” Jack would say.

In agents of ceiling fans buzzed and the doors spun him through to the bank in front of him. He marched across the floor and waited in line near the teller. They knew every step was in the wrong direction; the men faced their doom. It was three in the morning. Blissfully the sheep were told that minds and hearts matter. I fear that the poetic justice perused by my character should be harmless.

The poet justice of this character must be harmless. And with that Decree I proclaim that the one true road north is the table salt and pilgrimage to Bethlehem.

This is a religious man. I fell no need for the near and sideways glances that giving this sheet to an editor would do. The best way to write is to catch yourself writing and then find your old journals and counter their actions. The only way to start writing is to move past the first barrier and then face the barriers that come later on. And with this I should smoke, as my eyes are beginning to hurt and I feel like a poet in need of opening drafts. The writer is the character in all recently read journals but the self-righteous struggle is epochs in scale at times. This is another muse I have about mental illness. These states lead to a perpetually wiser and safer conclusion.  These conclusions are difficult to grasp and I suppose the normal person who let such ideas just be. The mad mind is the one to reach inside. So even as weaker minds do not prevail I wonder in writing what I’m doing to my world I have found the brief manuscript and by chance I read that one. It told me what I’m doing I am doing right.

Though I try a simpler note. A smoke, yes a smoke. That is what I need. At any rate a smoke makes me want to discuss literal things. Why? Or study the word why. I should do a brief synopsis on the word ‘Why.’ Lets look up the definition: “Interrogative adverb asking for what reason or purpose.” Why do we do the things we do? That is a question she asks me. Why do you put that there and not someplace else? Well I suppose that is just the best-shaped drawer for that. Yes, It would fit somewhere else.

Why do I live in Penticton? Is Penticton a real place? Is it my indoctrination in some world that lasts more so in thought than in image. I think it is that idea the doctors are telling me is that simple idea that I am a musician and writer with my time. I am leaving a trail of designs and templates for people to enjoy. The doctors convinced me I was there, truly doing it. They told me I am successful.

This breakthrough can be found initially in a repressed memory that flooded into my subconscious about seven years ago. Since then I had only heard one strange image of a horrid man who kept me locked in the relationship, both these men acted the same. They took pictures of my subconscious and abused me with nattering names. The whole time I thought these two people were real and the invisible world should not be trusted. The time before that I thought I was in Primus.

So is Penticton a real place? I don’t know. It seems to have an economy and society of people doing likeminded things. It seems to have a coffee shop for those who dream. The lights and glitter that is show business show that some men play stadiums and some men can see them. To be fair, quite a large number of people in show business can see the audience. I haven’t really yet. I remember I used to draw a crowd to a small place called Voodoo’s near purgatory bus stop. The spooky numbers were drawn out of that dive.

I never played a stadium but it was because I never saw it. So I had a revelation.

Because I know there is an audience, I don’t know if I could do it if I could see the thousands. I am now discussing not touring and sitting at home writing a book. And thank you for all the memories. It was a wonderful time with friends for me. Hopefully it was for you too. For now, pals, I am going to sit and write something that sounds like the above chapter. It will lead to me writing something of some sense. I just want to be like Frank Zappa.

But do I really? That is the question.