Dear EatKhash,
I understand you made a new post in remembering for the month of February. I also understand that you took it down. Baby, I don't understand! While scouring the web for current news about you, someone on a message board sent me a link to this article, and I'm concerned for your well-being.
You must have took a hit, the soft kind—that I can understand. But is there nothing to be done with that post? Surely, getting to the bottom of two gyros and a bucket of fries will yield little in the way of ideas. As a long time reader, let me say now, I'm not on the wavelength of those tired of Bayern Munich, as I understand from the chatter, your post was very telling and panaramic, but perhaps, falling short as merely a venn-diagram. I'd like to believe you're striving to expose the negative energy and emotional poison long clouding your perception, as ugly as it might be, rather than reverting back to childish imagery—which, at this point, is rather dull, love. Before, you may not have been aware of the layer underneath, and you proclaimed you would keep digging, foul stench and all. I've grown to admire a certain humbleness in you—now, don't get overblown, I know how you like those em dashes—in your clumsy earnestness to depict how obsession mechanically operates, parallels, deflects, or hijacks your world as a methodical terrorist. Perhaps now, that is the obstacle, an uncharted territory, with clear mind admist the sting of shortcomings, to know the place for the first time—but please, darling, no more pictures of pussy.
Margaret Dacher
P.S. Would Mr. Orwell frown upon my use of "uncharted territory," "in the way of," or "as a long time reader...?" That's right, someone sent me a copy of the draft before you took it down! I love you. Let's get married.
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