The foreign rabid have been arguing for years that the story is theirs, not mine. Ming Wen and her faction, including Bowie, working with SONY and Gurdiev kluk, brayed of using ESP laden hallucinogenic-psychiatric conveyance to mislead my poetry during the writing of Hypotenuse, with one of their nutbag savants cursing at me and swearing he would torture me if I used parathentical remarks, since their fuhrer ripper Robert Fripp had used one in a postcard to me during re-education from impacted coma trauma.

I have complained of chaptering and explained that the attackers had moved to the front, “stolen the show,” to mislead the convo in the heads of the victims. Ono at present has Seattle rowdies cheering their assassination of another Kennedy as justice for Lennon. “You paid with your heart,” one of their lispers quoth openly. Although they appear to wear their horns proudly, their interest is a cargo cult telling story by murder. It is our story, they lisp, because it isn’t, and they spit, Reagan didn’t know.