when life takes you by the mind, and you have nowhere to go, i try to turn to a pen. now i write most of my letters on a keyboard so i explain that without these details all the lesser beasts within me can be found, somewhere when these dreams are of deceit and reckoning. i am sure that these pens are the remedy. i am sure that i know the cure, that writing with a tired head and listening to the mortal world can save me - this is a world i am sure that i live in, but am concerned that i cannot leave, no matter how many times i am buried alive or shot. i am certainly not all the delusional subject matter i have listed in my mind these past few weeks, but as long as i am listening i surely reckon that there is a place for all of us in this anarchy. so let the devils destroy us, we will live on - these dastardly poets, their tones wrinkled like the tombs of righteous saints, brought for us in the listless poetic smile that we use to seem brilliant, a sort of pancake with mustard that i hope i can understand. i must admit, i have no clue who i am most of the time, and while i exist (that i am certain) where i am is mostly a mystery. i cannot tell you who i am at the best of times, jon pelletier i know for certain, but if i see the world for what it is then i am at least an unknown writer and musician. if i am known, then i grace these tomes like these drifting whittled pines, or some other poetic metaphor that some bastard will hear and try to leave as some silent ninja hoping that they will find a real light. as far as philosophy of me, i am at least sure that i do exist. i mean, i think, therefore i am. otherwise i cannot be certain how to sign off this letter. nearly every time i claim to be someone special i see these people who tell me what to think, tell me that i am no one, tell me that i should best do what they say. these are not the psychiatrists... these are people who claim to be family. my lord, i would rather be blind that put up with people who do not let me exist how i am. it is true, nobody can tell anyone what to think or do. they will simply not listen. i am living proof. perhaps i am the patron saint or prostitutes, but i am least saved by ghosts at some point, listening and waiting for jesus to come. sure, since you asked, yes i do believe in god. but i'm sure there are atheists in space as well. i am sure there are immortal atheists. i do not fully understand what that means. maybe one day my mind will settle i will assume the role that you see me as. for now i must rest and smoke, sit and wait for my turn to play at some strange open mic in perdition... at least until this stay at this wide space is up. and by the way - you should be happy. people will see you just as they expect you to be. i am sure hiroshima is still there, developing fine since 1942. they probably didn't even notice the bomb exploded.

Ten Minutes Later: I called to confirm that we would meet at the parlor, she told me we would meet at the Barstruck Bistro, but only if I promised not to drink. I told her that I loved her, assuring her twice and ate a government tranquillizer that had been looking at me from the dresser since before Festin had invaded. The guilt panged my heart as I walked slowly towards the door. I smoked the cigarette she had recommended, Rothman’s Special. The smoke made me sick, I needed three glasses of water to settle my stock, lowering to the rungs of common man. I opened the front door and it appeared that Festin had made it through our town, destroying the appearance of Strangelandia in an invisible sense only. There was nobody on the street, most doors and windows were boarded, paper flipped and traveled in the wind, everything was dirty but it appeared that no gunshots were fired. It did not look like an invasion. There were neither flattened buildings nor bodies, just an eerie quiet that emanated like the morning. I began to stroll idly as trees past me on either side creating a shady enclave that lit me as a silhouette as I crested the first small hill. I looked at the corner shop, where I bought my Rothman’s cigarettes. The boards were on either side of the barred windows. The neon lights that jutted above the building were out. On the other side of the street was a hardware store. There was a board lifted off the window and the window smashed in, probably to gain access to weapons, or perhaps boards and hardware for home defense. I knew of some sort of biology or physics, but not a discerning name given to those who write their words. If only I could make such a picture: In the early morning is the dust had settled like no one had been about in many weeks. There were no bullet holes in the buildings, any rising water nor destruction. We had leant them our ear and they had lied about this war. I was certain. But what were those loud noises that had filled the street for so long? The crashes were so roaring they shook the foundations of my house. The walls swayed as they deafened our ears. Yet there was no destruction. I could not take a picture, nor mix a drink. I could not blend in to the fog that surrounds me. Spaces settled I was ready for the weasel and harmoniums sent towards their leaning patience without a close-knit wink. Perhaps I do not exist, for without these people who can, I suppose that teachers find their harm or the details of God? It is the strangeness that unsettles me because there are no dead. We would belong to the purposes that take their minds. There is not a needless spot. Hope can space their minds apart. These are but letters to souls, water. This is of people being fired from grand schools for personal spite and the children leaving them for government tranquillizers. They give their sheltered lives a good name. But the school appears closed for good, too. A number of times I had noticed mistakes in the school. It is why I left so many years ago. It was always teaching us about Festin, not our land, it was as if they were heralding this kind of new age. Surely they knew this invasion was coming, and surely someone was pilfering the safes. So never mind, water, because these people want us to help. I mean, it didn’t make me any better than the rest. If the others were like me I’d say we are off worse for going there. The Robot School of Metal Health, they say it is in my blood. With this thought I arrived at the café to meet Emily Grett.

There was a pause for a moment, while the young man fell ill with the fever of twenty-odd years of requests to die being granted. The notion was asked for, begged for, bargained for and made the appeal of these great minds controlling the machine. As he entered this world, he did not want to go and begged that he would only live a few years. The minds told him that he would have to live long enough to reclaim righteous leadership and intelligent ideas in the world and when he had, he would be allowed to leave if he felt it was for the best. When asked if he wanted to go he told the wise minds that he would like to go to where he belonged and be the person that he truly was, instead of the gracious in kind donation of a synthetic shell that had carried his consciousness for these 27 years. Although he understood the remarks made towards him, and the repercussions of leaving the world he was currently experiencing - he knew that his fate had been decided by metal shards, mighty blows and the halls of great requiem that would remember his idle age at death in the hollowed halls of fame, and thus - his mission would be a success even though he abided by the requests to refrain from being on stages or profiting from his work. You see, our hero - who by now is dead because of his work (arguably this position has been omitted to protect the health and safety of those our hero holds dear) - was unable to explain to anyone his official occupation without compromising their safety. He was also not guilty of the laziness that he was charged with, and when this becomes clear, acting as a pious messenger to deliver these papers to legally powerful and segmented or damned men will show itself to not be a treasonous act as sucgh and very much in accordance with his job description. It should also be noted that all legal notifications of service of destructive (or breakable, tonal jammed) documents was made prior to the delivery. It seemed like an easier way out for those held in secret cabals and doomed resources finally upholding their bargains and endlessly believing that they are the righteous kings, this notion that it is best to spray cancer from airplanes and poison water, or to jam that poison into a group of loosely tied people, our hero included, and let their various corpses hold the secrets that they could not let go. Once again, the criminal party in this document does not understand the processes in which the documents were served, refused to read the documents that were served and/or has an IQ of below 65. So, I leave it to your better judgement to discover the patents that I may or may not have, the mania ingrained in my medical files and the resources that have lifted my part of these conspiracies to the greater good. Without further ado - my will. 1. As far as whatever i made that is tangible, like art - do something cool with it, like a show or something (make sure all the bands play for free) then mix em up and sell those things for money. Make sure you track those buggers so that they can all come together again and hopefully people will see them in a hundred years and appreciate them. 2. Print everything I even wrote on the computer at least once, copy it if you think it’s good. i’m going to try and do this now, starting with my entire blogs and stuff, one day they will pull the plug, surely and everything on this interweb will be gone. Lots (and i mean freakin’ epochs worth) of handwritten stuff is around in boxes and stacks of paper, much of it will be missing by the time this is read, but the rest of it will be an awesome book, it just needs a few touchups, maybe a plot, some characters - fuck em, give it to max zaitlin and tell him to be creative. whoever else in interested in editing and rewriting those sheets, go ahead, you’ll be able to find me in england somewhere, i’ll be a baby.

3. i have a heck of a lot of music that is only in digital format, it would be great if that could be somehow saved for all posterity as a physical document or tape. 4. the guitars should all be given cases so they can be mailed to the following addresses: a) amos o’kane busted acoustic - mail this one to a nunnery in rome, it doesn’t matter which one. attach this will and a book of encouragement, as well as a manwoman nun’s in a dumptruck card that was gifted to the golo. the card can be blank, or signed by whoever is mailing the case (i mean the guy working at the desk at the post office, not you). if no nuns can be found in rome, mail the vatican and ask where the sisters of our service to the holy queen chapel nunnery is, and whatever language they speak at that nunnery, write the note in an illegible hand of gibberish similar to that language. they should get in touch to clarify and send them a book of encouragement and my resume. upon reply send word of my demise and perhaps a gift certificate to get licorice for all the orphans. b) washburn timbrewood acoustic - this is my most expensive guitar, so please smash it into small pieces and place the pieces around the art show, its better if they go unnoticed, maybe to be complained about by staunch republicans at the show only to seem relevant because they are running in the next city council election, which they will most likely lose, because they tried to be cool instead of who they were. after the show, mail the pieces to those people who complained with a copy of this will, a book of encouragement and any applicable manwoman card. c) fender bazooki, fender telecaster, fender squire bass - i’d like to keep these, but alas, i am dead - probably for a while, so i’m sure there is an orphanage somewhere that could use them. i’m thinking in LA. d) 6 string ibanez bass - send this to republican national convention as proof of life beyond the grave. ask a proper rhinoceros like salam henchman of citrus, or cross-examiner delirious robot monkey vampire (xp 107) to deliver it. it is not a threat, just a notion of what could be without these sorts of delicious apple jacks. e) check the time - write the current time and date here: ______________ write a letter (or call, it your perogative) to the whitby general hospital in UK, ask if there was someone born at that exact time. if there was send the rest of my guitars to that family and explain, although this is not me reincarnating - i would like my gear to be in that town and they seem like nice people, so they can have it. if there is not a birth at that moment, then ask for a ten minute grace period on either side of that date, or perhaps no-longer consider the difference caused by time-zones. ie, 2.15 = 2.15, or 2.15 = 10.15 ..... whatever is close, mail the gear to them, amps and all and request that it be kept for sale to a strange person dressed quite as requested by delirious, by now hanged men who asked for jabberwoks. if time travel is possible, and i already am a doppleganger of myself over there, i’ll be called something similar and these folk will be able to find me. if, in fact, a distant relative has had a birth near the time of my death, kindly disregard these instructions and give everything i own to her, including whatever rights rights to all the music and stuff like that garble.

5. otherwise, all rights to everything i have recorded, written, said or decided should be left to mirva and my current family, any kids that fall out of anyone and whatnot until they become public domain. because i’m new at this ‘leaving stuff to myself’ thing. just know that i will be in cahoots with mustard or marmalade, so be mindful of the sudden appearance of someone grey, similar to morrigan, carillon, madeline or something of this tone, some abject resource brought by fish, righteous indignation and irish republican drunkards settling on the main island, nothing like the servant of myths of the shae. it will be more troublesome because of the reality, the quarrels meant for me, the threat of impulse that did not scar me, scare me nor torment me, but allowed me to be ran through without earnest protest. 6. my books (by other authors) can be donated to the conservative party of canada. please send them one a day, with the return address as - jon pelletier (hector from jabberwock) x81176b-57(delete)9 the shae, whitey -crim (england) jab-isl, siren motive. (this is a letter from whitey the crime) 7. whatever else i’ve got, give to whoever wants it.