People who don’t know how to listen should be restrained from writing books.  People who don’t know how to listen should be restrained, and…made to watch television.

Pain, people object to pain.  I don’t blame them.  I’m not big on pain myself.  I feel most of our pain is self-inflicted, in an effort to get back into our feelings, which are windows of the soul, if you’ll forgive my language.  If not, fuck you.  I jest. I hope. Laughter makes for good blood and semen.

So far so good, as I continually respond to inquiries about my health and well being.  To be honest with you, I would like to live in Disneyland until 2020, at which time I plan to have a monkey gland operation and fuck Paris Hilton into ecstasy and sanity.

I’m jesting you.

To be semi-serious for a moment, I am sending this message because I feel you are close to being a mature human being with possibilities for spiritual liberation, enlightenment and activity.  I hope I haven’t over-estimated you.  There’s alot of that going around these days, and especially in political circles–and squares.

So life is an endless journey, commencing and climaxing in ecstasy and then commencing again, endlessly.  

Sounds monotonous, but it’s not.  It gets newer, richer and more real all the time.  Just ask Harry Houdini when you see him.  He’s over there, on the other side, preparing a magic trick…for you.