Hey, Paco! Thanks for what you did the other day. There is no way I can ever repay you
you know. I cant 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
Its 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 didnt 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 bellywhich 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
sayingthey belong to an Indian tribe whose name no one remembers. Ok, thats
not quite right. Someone remembers. You know that by now.
Ay, Paquito! I cant say thank you enough. You went beyond and
above the call of duty as they told us in the academy. Perhaps deep down Id
like to see these messengers as a token of my deepest gratitude. Sorry if you think this
is too crass. I think its 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
wont 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? Its you, Paquito,
you and only you. Areeeeeeeyou aperhaps list end in to ure 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?