November 11, 2003

My friend is a visionary indian angel daily drifting further away from reality “with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares.” He writes random poems to random strangers and recoils deep within his mind.

At least he still has a mind; I’m starting to lose mine. Once more I’ve taken on too much work and too much beauty in my life. Surprisingly, everything is going relatively well: some things get done, others get ignored, but there is some progression. My real life is a mess, but my virtual existence is intensely prolific.

I’ll soon have to run and develop visions of my own. I’m having tea with Amy in 20 minutes and we’ll talk about the comic we’re going to write for my wonderfully independent online publication. I too want to be a visionary indian angel.