I wanted to write you a letter, but this will be the closest I'll come to writing you a letter. I'm the wondering gnome of Vancouver, and like a wondering gnome I wonder. I don't sleep anymore, or my dreams have been too tired to sleep, either way, im a wondering gnome. I've figured out how to dance alone and make people exasperated in a slow motion quiver that drives their ankles into a frenzie of frivilous cramps. No one can keep up to a gnome. I don't do art. I'd rather sympathize with starving artists, and manipulate the pretentious lovliness of their long finger nails that need to be cut. I starve. I walk into the shadows of my hollow eyes, and let the sun follow. I'm not morbid. My mind plays like a record, only a few actors with masks like in greek tragedies. Everyone wears a mask. I've never been a big fan of masquerade gallas, but Iive been thrown into a pot of heaping lava, that I've molded my face out of ambers and ashes and twigs and berries. I think im going to leave this place. Sooner than I imagine. I haven't worked in three monthes. Living off of sorts of succulent wall paper. Leaving trails of myself far in-between of tattered landscapes. Plenty of good times, but good times i can go on with some place else. I'm mad about love, mad about flowers. you always knew Il oved flowers, even when I said i hated them. You always knew I was a wondering gnome. Nowhere to go, but always lost in the bait of destiny. I want to write. I want to write I tell people. I tell people I write. I copy their words in my notepad like an innocent journalist gratificationing their egotistical minds. Monologues keeping me awake in the morning after. I feel free. I'm the free'estgumdrop to have fallen from the suckle berry tree. Alone, never wanting to go home, just to fall asleep on a bench, under a tree, a couch, a floor, a corner, under a table, curled up, with greek tragedies playing in history.