Dear Chris
it is 3:17 a.m. in New York city, it is
1962, it is the year of parrot fever. In
Brandenburg, and by the granite gates, the
old come-all-ye’s streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,
the season of delight. I am writing to you to say that
I have gone mad. Now I am sowing the seeds which shall,
when ripe, master the day, and
portion out the night. Be watching for me when blood
flows down the streets. Pineapples are a sign
that I am coming. My darling, it is nearly time. Dress
the snowman in the Easter sonnet we made for him
when scissors were in style. For now, goodbye, and
all my love,
The Snake.
