A Dickhead in Cool Cunt's Clothing.

I greet you in a prescient mood - as if I can predict what's to come.

Ah, summer. This is the worst time of year to be lonely. If you can, find someone pretty to snuggle up with, and don't let them go all summer long. Come autumn, when the leaves start to brown and crack, you will be better for the experience. Even better if you still haven't let them go.

But always be wary, Jack. You just never know.

. . .

Still today I find it hard to un-scramble my thoughts. They are like a mush - porridge - in my head, and difficult to organise. If lives are valued by the store of intelligent thoughts in one's head, then I'm afraid that I am bankrupt. It has been grey outside and grey in here, but the floors are re-done and the house feels new.

I think I'll shave my head soon. Like a new beginning, a shaven head is a risky undertaking: until you take the plunge, its almost impossible to know how it will turn out. No matter. I think I am ready to do it. Oh, trivialities. After such a monumental undertaking, going the whole hog and getting rid of this blasted beard is probably a step too far. So I will adopt the look of an upside-down head: hair on the bottom and none on top. The young women of this town will not be overjoyed, but to pander to their fluctuating whims is beyond me right now. Who fucking cares? There is only one person worth the fight right now, and we all know that is never going to happen. My chances have been given and squandered.

And we could discuss at length the shortcomings that led to this sorry situation. Indeed, it would be a fascinating sociological journey - not to mention the more harrowing psychological one. But we haven't the time, and I haven't the fortitude. Nor, my starry-eyed disciples, do I think you would enjoy the tale. Ho ho, this benevolent act of emotional-charity is easily deciphered. Read between the lines.

My affair with HST tugs my heart strings from page to page to page. In a world where few things excite me, and fewer inspire, this man is truly one out of the box, as they say. I am no doe-eyed fan, nor am I a believer in the allure of celebrity. But respect? Oh, respect runs deeper than any sycophantic ravings ever could. So here's to ya, my deceased literary forebear. I'm alive to carry on the gunshots and explosions. And, truth be told, wouldn't mind going out with a touch of style like you did. No copy-cat deaths here. But perhaps a respectful rendition of my own?

I feel a flood coming.