Dear Fellow Seekers:
This voyage has spawned sweeping break throughs into my creative psyche. But I fear the cost is too great. I write this from my meager bunk, where I sleep near the human's feet. Her hygiene is unconscionable. It's as if she's never heard of scraping. No matter, I'm unable to rest regardless. I believe I may have actually begun to tap into the lingering minds of the ancient poets, a blessing and a curse. Even as they inspire, they haunt my dreams. Still, my work has been sporadically brilliant:
The wind hurries past
Stirs a lotus blossom shuffle
Whispers to me
Remove thy clothes...
But then it passes, and I am spent, devoid of writerly spark. I have only this tobacco of my homeland to cling to during the long nights. Barbie and Tink continue to be of very little help. They are high on inexpensive foot massages and fried pork.
With sincerest sincerity,
Naked Man
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