I know its quite peaceful, well for this moment at least. The Famous Blue Raincoat is playing on this winter cool night, the past few days seem to have passed now. Another week quitely looms ahead of me. With new expectations, I suppose. But I won't think about it, do you think one should have about how everything must be planned. Well I've been reading some plays, the one's I'd promised myself -- some of them written by Miller, Osborne and Pinter.
You may seem to find some influences here and there. Not that that really matters, anyway; cause I'll never write another Catcher in the Rye -- and I know it doesn't have to be written again, that's the sheer splendid beauty of it. I'm quite peaceful for once, and despite the coming week to frighten me with all that I'm meant to fullfil, I will try not to kill this glorious evening that I wish to intend to spend with you -- very unromantically.
Been drinking quite a bit as well -- still can't find my feet -- I suppose you would find it anyway a lot in my blood. There's been some great deal of introspection as well, and that also has managed to really wreck my nights of sleep. I've realised that one musn't, if one keeps to it as a point, have a conversation that provokes you to think a great deal before sleeping. It leaves you howling the rest of the night with water and cigarettes.
I think I'm a bit of misanthrope that really can't, hopelessly do without people. Young that we are, or I am exclusively. Strange as that may seem. I'm not very expressive they say, I think I know now why. Cause you know, happiness is very overrated, it is. This youth plays with the stars, the dragons and ships and pirates -- waiting for castles in the air to be swept and washed by the violence of foaming sea -- the sun in my eyes and a murder in my life.
You maybe rich, but that silver spoon in your mouth when you were born was never really a teaspoon of the first-notch whisky or anything like that. I've heard that you've spat your cerelac on someone, special's face. Your tastes are now quite splendid but will never be even of the remotest dream of the poor who wouldn't anyway wish to trade them with the horses they once had when wishes were not that cliched. I know what I mean, you would have to indulge in philanthrophy. But being in these rags that may not suit your style, I will still try to win the favour of women that refuse to be in your spoilt company, who are surprisingly quite so selfless when they are thinking.
Its very possible that your friend, if I may say so -- this writer -- has lost his mind and cannot breathe a single word of sanity on this page. He will lose his reputation, the one he never actualy had. But what better a place I ask you, where one can spill the seeds of wrong vision smudged in the very air of your comfort, and still not have to worry about hiding his real name from the politer societies -- to still hang around with you.
Those of you know who know me, know that you never really had hope; if you lie now, Santa's secret orgy team will never reach you when you will be 86.
I will always be your humble servant, your notions are very practical but in theory they are all wrong -- I heard this line from one of the secrets of the UN. Although I missed the intelligent point, I tend to do so, I still caught a line that may get me laid, even if its not that kind you really understand. I swear, I know no poker that cried, I may have lost my age but I never said that had no pride, it was this romance that was outside, where I know that I had no mind on that endless ride with Margarita on my side, with your shrieking guide to find, who was it that actually lied?
I shall return, so very soon, and would you wish to. If you are unhappy I can tell you where you can sell them. If you wish to trade them that is.