Letter 4,303:
It's been a major ache in my thoughts that for so long many of you, but not all, have wasted your talents. I've carefully placed the puzzle pieces in certain individuals and have even directed the meeting of these perfect matches, and still I am denied. All because you have given in to your petty animal instincts. The cure for AIDS as well as for all cancers, let me recollect: One, both had their meeting at a neighborhood bar in Henderson, Nevada. Unfortunately for all the poor victims, the cure decided to get completely demolished drunk and go home to fornicate. In a twist, call it venomous irony, they finished up, went separate ways and both died tragically from the very disease they were meant to destroy. Second cure, met at a rest stop somewhere in the deserts between Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Call it ironic again, or pure simple bad luck, but the tragedy that befell these two was that a serial killer happened to meet up at the very same rest stop. Cigarettes. If only they didn't ask the killer for a light, millions of people would be right as rain. This cure is buried together in a shallow grave beyond the cactus horizon.
Now, waste of talents? Or simply, ignorance? I can't tell anymore. My head hurts.
As always, yours truly in infinite silence,
Up.
It's been a major ache in my thoughts that for so long many of you, but not all, have wasted your talents. I've carefully placed the puzzle pieces in certain individuals and have even directed the meeting of these perfect matches, and still I am denied. All because you have given in to your petty animal instincts. The cure for AIDS as well as for all cancers, let me recollect: One, both had their meeting at a neighborhood bar in Henderson, Nevada. Unfortunately for all the poor victims, the cure decided to get completely demolished drunk and go home to fornicate. In a twist, call it venomous irony, they finished up, went separate ways and both died tragically from the very disease they were meant to destroy. Second cure, met at a rest stop somewhere in the deserts between Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Call it ironic again, or pure simple bad luck, but the tragedy that befell these two was that a serial killer happened to meet up at the very same rest stop. Cigarettes. If only they didn't ask the killer for a light, millions of people would be right as rain. This cure is buried together in a shallow grave beyond the cactus horizon.
Now, waste of talents? Or simply, ignorance? I can't tell anymore. My head hurts.
As always, yours truly in infinite silence,
Up.
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