Ivo Kashoggian

I don’t know which I am more drawn to, Mathilde or the Black Rock.

Whichever it is, I can no longer resist.

I am going to Ivo Kashoggian’s to see both of them (the journey will be long).

It occurs to me that these computers on which we are communicating are nothing but coffins of glass and plastic.

My dear friends, are you out there? Sometimes I think I made the lot of you up.

I am cognizant that if I go to Kashoggian’s, some change may happen. At the very least, I may despise myself, I have never been drawn to anything or anyone like this before.

At any rate, for the time being, I leave you with a friend to keep you company.

I am departing, dear friends.

I shall return.

Hot Sauce

The hot sauce does not appear to be working, despite the fact that I have slathered it along every available surface. I am desperate.

Last night I had a vision of the Black Rock. I saw it standing in a dark cavern, outlined by red lights, with thousands of rodents swarming around it in a frenzy. The rodents were howling -- a high-pitched, unearthly howling which threatened to undo my sanity. And yet I was drawn to it with all the memory in my genes. I couldn’t look away even though I felt myself being consumed.

When I woke, I was sitting at my desk at the office. It was well past 11:00 p.m. and everyone had gone home. My fingers were still perched over the computer keyboard.