Dear Fellow Travelers:
The moment we crossed over into Russian lands, I felt a shift in my pysche. There is a gravity to this landscape and its people, one which reflects the tortured contents of my soul parts (TM). It comforts me. This recognition has spurred a surge of hope, and I've asked Barbie and Tink to accompany me to the carriage window for some Coca-Cola and reclining.
While there, as we discussed the masterpieces Dostoevsky called into the world, I made a major decision. Tomorrow I begin work on my novel. I suspect that my failures to express myself through poetry and memoir were only stepping stones to my true calling. It would not surprise me if I herald the next great movement in fiction, becoming a literary superman, if you will, navigating the depths of the human condition in ways the Russian novelists only began to explore.
Tink says I should "get the f*@k over myself."
But she is a foul-mouthed little fairy. So, obviously, she can go suck an egg.
With a renewed sense of purpose,
Naked Man
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