Francis, you have built an altar of impunity into which no one can reach. I seem to have scape from the injurious FBI who pushes me and harasses me to wake up to work, obligated, how obstinate to be understood, punctual translating your actions, merely pretending to pass another count. Theory to reason for their repressed fascination over how your art declares to Hannibal.
And in that pretending, caught with the illustrations of William Blake in this past decade, those pages are between me and each victims, they navigate rapturing verses in an untold story I shall, maybe, sometime pay my penalty and go with them, say the truth, perhaps, the whole ridiculous, hilarious f***ing obsessive truth.
What mysteries lies for them are not for what the death say or you both, nor from mine.
You made me so guilty to be found happy.