Ye gods, I almost forgot about this. That sickly aroma of the harried, the hurried, the rushed? Blame Yog-Sothoth.
I said that you don't have to believe me, and I certainly wouldn't...if I were in your shoes. But the facts remain steadfast, Howard, in spite of the conflicting factions of your quaint, beloved reason and my glaring neon insanity. So fucking haughty you are, but you'll see, you'll see, and then you'll believe.
But not now, of course, old friend. Ha! Go on and claim taut threads will prevent gnawing through this flesh, through this bone to get at the sweet, sweet marrow inside. Don't look at me like that, it's all that'll be left once they've begun. Nothing left. Tell me, is that the meaning of the 'good' buried below 'for my own?'
You will tell me, for your hubris know no limits.
You lord all you survey. A shame it's naught but padded shouting. Ha! Rigid as a preacher, an impressive figure you'd cut, if you weren't so amazingly wrong. A serious visage for a serious matter. The DSM-IV spread upon your hands, the Gospel according to the psychiatric hospital. This is the word of the lab. Praise be to Howard. Your good book to be heard by the multitudes of unfortunates who will die like dogs. Like me.
Such a sad fate this hallucination, given what passes for life in the septic tunnels of a poor, pill-fed, once respected mind safely out of public earshot, the only plausible outcome.
Like you. Oh, don't step in the afterbirth.
No, no, listen, I know you saw what I did, why else would you lock me away, but how else was I to stop its coup d'état? Don't encephalitic fluids, like the subjects of our illusory democracies, deserve freedom, too? They're coming.
And you'll scream for a room.
While you're busy laughing, can I have a drag? Thanks.
You're a good friend, Howard. How I pity you.