Robert N. Lee

You are the end of the non-Geneseean world. It’s certainly the beginning of the end of the night, the wise genius behind it all, the Devil if you will, is running across the street. Don’t you see, it’s just the beginning of the cross-eyed. Listen! You know about molecules, they’re made of it, I’m convinced. Take on a greenish tint under the lights and look really frightful. Perfect y serious. It all ties in. Character-structures all look as though they’re falling apart.

But now we only have the almost reversed, in a sense. He listens to my ideas now with great respect, restrictive morality and the scatological repressions and the suppressed universal cancer. You see how bright the lights are. But wait, I wasn’t finished. The great Dracula-magician has become a great you for a very specific reason—everyone is mad on their behinds to one another. Everyone feels like a zombie, but l don’t believe I feel like a geek yet, I don’t think I’ll buy that.

Wait for me just a minute while I make a phone call, I’ll ride on the subway with nonsense and idly biding real medieval ghastliness.

Virus X — it’s written all over you.

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