Lisa,

I've been thinking about things. I haven't really
been angry, but I have had some dreams that remixed
familiar themes.

The dream about the highschool graduation theater
production that I've been told to rehearse for at the
last minute is now blending with the dream where I'm
in a gigantic movie theater with endless, vast tents
spooling film after film. Somehow these two meld with
the dream about the space-age luxury hotel.

The dream about my family has now boiled itself down
to me, my brother, and my sister all awkwardly trying
to occupy the same ugly, poorly furnished room.

By the way, in my dreams I've acquired the ability to
find a magic elevator that will transport me to a new
and superior dream, although there's no way of knowing
what kind of place I'll be transported to.

On top of all that, (that is to say, during my waking
life), I remain pretty depressed and useless.

Last night, I took some Depakote, then drank White
Russians at a party, then smoked some hash, then
finished the evening off with a Seroquel. I have to
say, it was one of the most solid buzzes I've ever
experienced. Not the most powerful, or the most
pleasurable, just the most-- unyielding. Like chewing
gum or doing opium.

After we broke up on April 1st, Art Girl and I went our
separate ways. She departed on a road trip to Seattle
that she'd been planning. When I jumped out the
window, my roommate called Art Girl to tell her about it
and she O.D.'d on heroin. (She survived, and told me
about it the last time we saw each other, after I had
left the hospital.)

I loved her very much, and I had only known her four
months. Have these passions been real? Or have I,
and people like me, been made the victim of a cosmic
joke where our emotions are comically exaggerated
phantasms?

See you Wednesday,

U.