Derek Falky: Returning To His Roots|
Dear Loyal Countrymen,
A darkest darkness of light falls upon my hindsight and causes quite the disturbance to my gondola ride, here in Italy, from which I write to you, oh loyal undergrounders. How abysmal my left foot be, thine foot hath twist and resist and shout out through night of day's night! But I digress. It is an insatiable quest of percentage which has brought me hither to old Italia, mine birth of origin and ancestral roots which hath sprouted from thine lake of sin and evil and Dove ice cream bars! But that which is least responsible oft be that which be the largest of termites in a castle made of plastic elastic. It behooves me that you may find this letter in good health and that you may mark on your world maps my locale and, panthetically speaking, a root beer or two would be nice with ice. Ice cream that is, Big Boy...
But never mind that because a war is a war and that's all it can be but peace is undefined and thusly so are you and the soul of you that is you without your mind and body but NO! NO I say, NO! NO! NO! Yes? No. Yes. But I forget my doctor's orders and rummage in my sleep to dawn and take my morning waxing with the best of them, and sing my birdie tweet, tweet and die a little bit. But I digress. It is a polluted stream in an uncharted land that has brought me to my birthplace, where I have come to mate and die and live again, anew, as a pink, pink flower in a crystalline vial of Vatican piss. Dare I risk the reward of punishment, I ask myself and I weep the tears of the undead zygotes of the undead antelopes of the undead Sahara. This morning I burned my hand on the stove.
I must leave you now, my indentured servants of transistor radios and whirliegigs. My blood pressure has risen to my esophagus and challenged the wisdom of pop guns and corkscrews, and so adieu, adieu, and fear no more my pretty children.
My Unhealthy Love To You All,
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