Old Letter

I might be going through a rambling phase. Not surprising; I am anticipating working on "dollar pint night" which is practically my least favorite thing ever. So here we go again...I found this really old typewritten letter which also looks like something you'd send to your shrink, but I believe this letter (which I did not write myself) is both weirder and a lot more interesting...I will preserve the miss-spellings:
Dear Alison--I am enjoying your letter, I am tickled you have fanatics at home. I washed my hair with beer this morning. Just got VCR working; it was called plugs it was. Part one of "The Singing Detective" is running and blasting right now. The time is a quaryer to nine and I'm procrastingating; have to email my professor, to give him my email ostensibly; it has taken me all week avoiding this, because he is a lawyer and I am a huckleberry. He could kill me, pick me and eat me. His real world accumen passes right through me, It's a bad scene. I enjoyed the insanity you speak about cinnamon Pop Tarts. Einstein told everybody time is not for fascists. You want to believe in cinnamon Pop Tarts you run with that. I'm not captain health like Andrew Weil. We're all fascists, we keep it in, it's a soul, it's not a big deal; violence is elsewhere where lawyers like to live. What's an airconditioner, don't tell me. I missed a punctuation. I was catching a musical number on my movie. The Singing Detective is my movie. You know who's dead? Dennis Potter's dead. You know who else? Einstein. Move finger through air across neck. Spell accross better, that a boy. Driving? I can't pull an engine -any v number with my teeth. I can puff my liver up and sit down until it makes Apollonian man noises like raindeer hooves pad snow. No eyes, black nose, where a rifle can crack and bounce all it wants evergreen bark makes good scratching. Phillip Marlow's hospital neighbor just flatlined in my movie. The nurse gives Phillip a candy. It's good, he weeps. The credits roll. Part one is subtitled "skin", part two is subtitled "heat". I have to write Professor Pensky. Professor Pensky. First I will rewind part one. I have to be careful not to write anything stupid. I don't like real people because they don't know how trivial their words are. I don't like poker because it attaches trivia to robots. I like a good dirge, just for the sound; gravity lapping appropria endings. (I missed it)
Thats it. I found it tucked away in a "Chakra Healing" book. I wonder if I should throw it away. But its so interesting. Maybe I should go tuck it in another book as a kind of feng-shui-ing-of-the-information-I-collect-and-own exercise...