Guidelines Established by the Legal System

Quixote Pancha, then. Oh dear.

I'll not drop the lies, nor the disguises. You give examples to substantiate your complaint, but nothing by way of definition. My false impressions and impostures could have been your school, but I see you have convinced yourself of the existence of a single path composed of singular, indistinguishable grains of complex singularity, and intend to walk unbidden by the mud you so often spoke of, back when we were fab.

If I tell you exactly the opposite of what I've told you before, will you accept me as a sort of friend? Or merely as a fiend? The chicken has teeth so that he may lie through them. No doubt in a prostate position, stretched out on the broad plain you intend to walk. Ancestors in the family plot appeal to thee, to be sustainable or admissable to the faulty direction in which your commendable heart lies. My psychic sense (developed as recently as yesterday by Maestro Mesmer) tells me your mother was confined to bed following your birth. You have also been bedridden. Other business must wait until I have a full deck of cards - at the moment I am casting from an incomplete deck (a deck of lies, made true only in the light of its completion). As such, I see you yielding without protest, and yet you are filled with contradiction and resistance. You refuse to take my insults lying down, but you should know that I read you and write you reclining on a sofa of unknown materials and mysterious origin. I do not care to stroke its velvet surface with any knowledge of its construction. For me, mere existence is enough. The fact that I can stretch myself upon it without falling to the ground pleases me beyond any need for certainty or authenticity of myself.

I consider hanging myself most days, with a rope as real as paradise. Class, education, homosexuality. They will peg me forever on all accounts in a slow decent. My energy, my vitality, points of certain negligence will carry my spirit foreward, my life amounting to little more than the killing that results from a drunk bowman. The family cusses him forever more, based on freezing him, sculpting him in the moment, regardless of the blameless before, the intractible after, and the legwork inbetween.

But I shall wait. Nero illuminated his garden with live Christians soaked in tar, and I soon hope to be treated to a similar spectacle. A live hypnotic show. In the castle. Living lamps gushing with invective. Justifiable homicide, decked out in Latin. The best language for lying lies down in its grave beside the Greek, distinct, like the noose, from paradise after the hanging.

If you must see me for who I really am, strip away with the spiral power of your eyes.



Yours,



Ham