I wonder if I am a ghost, haunting the bombshelled periphery of the nuclear holocaust of my life, softly glowing in the solitary night of death. I hear rumours of other lives, I overhear my friends as I invade their dreams in search of any remembrance of me. My friend Eric and his wife Rong are expecting a child today, tonight, any moment now: in one of my dreams of the future, their son is drunkenly learning to walk in their front yard, learning to step towards my friend Eric and his wife Rong's expectant arms. I wave at him from behind the wind, from beneath the leaves of the grass, from in-between the tapestry of sunlight, Hello, little boy, do you see me?

I wonder if I'm already dead, or dying, and what I am writing herein, dear Diary, is the moment of life flashing before the eyes; or Neitzsche's idea of the eternal return; or whatever it is, it seems far too brief, and already all so far away. Today I found an image of Young and me and a cow in Hawaii. It's such an odd, unlikely image; I remember we had ingested several NATO-drop sized bulkheads of ketamine, LSD and mushrooms, so this cow, I tell you, was one amazingly self-possessed traveller to encounter whilst stoned and driving round and round the sugarcanes of Hawaii in endless circles. I sent the picture of Mr Young, Mr Me and Mr Cow to Stephanie, a postcard from this world of hungry ghosts to the land of the living. I wonder if she understood that this was a letter from the dead, and that its languages could never be understood, never while she was alive, never while she possessed any hope.