Bastus, Bastus: The Easter Monkey. Bastus, Bastus: The Rehab Flunkie

Deadened in this sleep this morning, I dreamt of incredible heat. I'm approximately awake now, in that ball park. Good. I'm going to head outside to the beach with a novel of Richard Brautigan, my Highway 9 notebooks, a waterbottle, and make an attempt to soak up sun filtered through generous helpings of SPF... Whoa. Okay. Hold. Giddy down. Forget all that. Cold and cloudy--it is. By COLD, I say it's 66 F. By cloudy, I say, crossing the sky like marshy astroids. Hokay. Change of the plans. Titrade in my head. I'll go to the Used Book Bin II and I'll engage myself in active book speech to the owner there, his name is Bastus. This windy one is a real treat if there is a day you can find him. He is widly informed into which in the modern world of printing, goes. I think about the disorder I suffer, and thank the good Lord that I am not suffering from HIS disorder. Quiet and locked up, hysteria in his brain, trapped inside. Quiet hysteria, perhaps trapped inside, building up under his old gray skin, causing his forehead to buldge in that strange way that it does. When I find out what new used books he's got, and which of the other 200,000 I've already discarded as "Books Erik Will Never Frigging Read." Books like, "Trapped," now a Major Motion Picture. And "Ten Habits of Highly Effective People." No thank you. After the Bin I'll headed up to Books-A-Million and buy coffee and leave immediately. Temptation is too large if I remain there for length. I must find a place quiet which I can trail-off with my eyes closed. It would be nice. A quiet place. I need that kind of quiet.

Peace and Love,
Mungo

Song of the day: Death Cab for Cutie - "Title and Registration"