I am a passionate man.  I am passionate about my ancient dreams, passionate in my love for dead friends and absent companions, passionate about surviving the hell that my psychotic tormentors subject me to, and passionate about my seething rage at the cowardly stalkers who continuously but unsuccessfully attempt to make me a prisoner in my own home.

I take nothing lightly.

I am a wolf on the prowl.  The war face goes on when I leave my house to go out into this hostile world. Lock and fucking load.  Get grim. Survive. Excel.

In my heart, I seek peace.  Nobody cares.  They want war.  Welcome to my war.

I am an actor in a play I did not create, so I will play my part as I interpret it, not as others wish me to.

Once, there was a time of laughter and love and blue water and blue skies and white sand beaches, dense green jungles and tall pyramids, accompanied by the joy and laughter of my friends.  Now, all that has become a fading but still-remembered dream, a time when I was more aware of my humanity and my ability to love than at any other period during this long, strange trip.

It's been one hell of an experience, this life of mine.

Along the way, I shared the love of many good friends.  They are either dead or scattered or were only fair-weather friends who dispersed like curs at a dead run when the shit hit the fan.

I know more who are dead than who are alive, but when you hit 70, that becomes the way of your world.

But never forget that love is the ultimate reality

Amidst the occasional journeys to the depths of despair, amidst the hostile, painful external stimuli, amidst the hate directed at me, amidst the occasional bouts of seething rage, amidst the treachery of false friends, I will continue to fight to my last breath.

You can take that to the bank.