Letters From Oz
I wish we’d broken bread or shared a joke or…something other than this. But I always do what comes next, you know?
My car is my armor, my skin, my flesh. I…honestly…I love spiraling into hell – and escaping, it’s fun…but I won’t involve anyone else in this race…not again.
I’m sorry, doc …for taking her from us. But – this seems like such a soap opera – I can’t stop. I’m hollow unless there’s adrenaline involved. What is beautiful, after all?
Doc, why do I hate myself for loving this? I need rage but I need something more and happiness is so…sedate…lobotomized…castrated…overrated…
Heaven is hell, doc. I’m sorry, you won’t convert me. My soul is steel.
I’ve heard the hardest thing for a minister to do is come down from a high gracefully.
Is that true? Is grief angelic?
And is happiness that hard to surrender?
So, you’re still spinning those low profiles like a rodent on a concrete treadmill?
Not surprising. You’re one of the few people I’ve met that claim to live for and hate attention. A truly tortured artiste, I imagine.
I don’t think she believed ‘inspiration’ involved becoming a bright smear on the highway.
She was the painter, not you. But her brush never moved at 160 mph. And the colors were delicate, soft…
I miss her.
So, do you still paint the air with blocks of color in high cubist style? Does the world whirl around you like chopper blades droning before battle? I believe you’re most sorry when you’re still and the demons are close. Movement is grace for you, and shunning hell and kissing angels can only be done at speed.
Matching speeds, at least.
When I feel anything, I pity you. And then I feel nothing at all.
When you arrive in hell I’ll tell you more.
Enjoy the ride.