Love is the Plan, The Plan is Death

As of late, all my strange and persistent experiences have been dreams. I dreamt one night that ancient old Paglia showed me how he/she kept a journal through the vast ages of her brilliant life. The secret wasn't to use one bound journal after another, but to re-bind the pages, removing and adding in worthwhile notes as one went. She bound hers in black leather and hooks made of corrugated paper and wire. Of course, you'd use a throw-away journal for your to-do lists. The bound edition was only for meaningful and sentimental things.

I also lucidly dreamt of playing in a band; eating agate and malachite; a serial-killer poisoning children with heroin, hashish resin, rage and blood; and nursing my criminally neglected pet cockateel back to health in time for Thanksgiving dinner (the squidball having already died). I love living in stories, but I've decided I'd rather have a normal sleep architecture than the opportunity to gaze narcissistically at the wonder that is my sub-conscious.

Now, if you'll excuse me, girls love robots.