Hey Paco

Hey Paco...
Hey, Paco! Thanks for what you did the other day. There is no way I can ever repay you for… you know. I can’t even bring myself to say it. Anywho, I was cleaning around the flat because Marla is coming over this weekend. I found the pouch! Can you believe it???

	It’s weird! I had this tingling all afternoon while I was picking up the splinters and broken glass and whatnot. The closest I got to the trap door the more I felt that empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, just as if I was about to throw up. Reminds me of the times we used to strap the twins over the edge of the warehouse, remember? I remember telling you how it felt like it was me who was about to fall off; like I was hanging over the abyss by a thread.

Weird thing is, when I saw the pouch I didn’t even know what I was looking at. It felt like it was always there, almost like part of the background. I would have missed it completely, where it not for the pressure in my belly—which was growing by the second! (Ha! I wish I could see your face just about now!) Ok, let me cut to the chase: as you are sure to know by now, her stones were there. Yes, they were! As Marla kept saying—they belong to an Indian tribe whose name no one remembers. Ok, that’s not quite right. Someone remembers. You know that by now.
	Ay, Paquito! I can’t say “thank you” enough. You went “beyond and above the call of duty” as they told us in the academy. Perhaps deep down I’d like to see these messengers as a token of my deepest gratitude. Sorry if you think this is too crass. I think it’s rather got finesse. Then again, we always argued about the nuances of the “Art”.

Regardless of who is right, sweet Paquito, the last stroke in this self portrait of a demon is traced by your rotten runt. By the end of this letter, if you get to read it, you won’t be able to say more, do more, or even think about this. That “nameless” tribe, the unremembered ones, do know exactly what to do with these stones. (Of course, to call them “stones” is as misguided as to call us “insane”. It assumes a thing can be fully defined by those who deny it.)
By not; is evryitnl is calculatd ascording to plans thingas are becoming blurry. Weird. You thinkin as sinking like sinning thoughts confused commingling words with visions confusing sounds with written words. It is at this point, according to the arrangement of the stones that the brain begins to play tricks. God I wish I could be in your head and test this for myself. Tell me, Paco, does it really, REALLY, feel as if you are someone else? Is your experience of pain and searing burning truly being experienced as a detached observed? How can this be?

They must be doing their thing, by now. Are you like the eye of God looking down on them doing things to you? Or are you experiencing this as if you are one of them? (I wonder if the twins or the bald kid or the girl with the smelly hair ever felt like they were us and not them going through it all?) Could it be that you are sitting somewhere inside your head watching this “movie” wondering who that guy is? It’s you, Paquito, you and only you. Areeeeeeeyou aperhaps list end in to u’re es creams puffing as musique or as blurred speach cumming Fromm a radius, aur as works imprinted in pauper or a comp you er screen? How is it, deer Freud? How furns burs burns the fire of the light? How lights the lighting of the last breath?