2001-10-28 - 10:02 p.m.

Stars are in my fingers. And the clouds are my flesh. Everything I can touch I can see. Thunder roars over like my car starting. Its only getting started, friend. Pills roll across the table like magic amulets and power crystals. Throw me money and your jewelry. Money is my food. There are times when not even I can cry. Ghosts are only those that won't stop thinking. Meditation is relief, for one's ailing stomach. And the captains of the armies slide their arms together. Ring around the rosy, pockets full of posies, ashes ashes, we blow up. Rose petals glide back and forth as feathers from a bird of prey imploded by a shotgun from the ground. And everybody continues to grin, like it was some sort of bad joke. I don't always think in dreams. But dreams are my breakfast.

Interludes and indentations mark a sophiscated asshole. Asses are the best white meat. Gold is so bland. Silver is more shiny. And on and on the horses trot, right off the cliff, as if they could sleep trot. Everybody is a comedian. Top of the stairs is the dragon, and on top of the dragon is ink and blood and sewage. There are too many words to communicate with, that is why we kill each other, brother, sister.

Forever and Ever,

Yossarian Yossarian

Write an entry to pianosa's diary of non-sense and possible madness.