Dear Sergeant Pepper,
For a long time now I’ve been convinced that drugs construct a link to history’s underside. LSD conjures the Sixties; prewar Vienna reclines in cocaine’s powdered foothills. On the cover of the album that bears your name, Edgar Allen Poe, Sonny Liston, Sigmund Freud. I write to you because this album forms, along with co-op peanut butter and carob chips, patterns my dreams make into quilts and fold over childhood’s pillows. I’m writing to you because half-baked concepts define my labor; my pallid inspiration can’t access completion. Experts consider your Lonely Hearts Club Band an unfinished concept album. Visionary excess never completes its projects, but its leavings provide ample room for inebriations others title entertainment. Do the Sixties as a decade match this pattern? All I know today dissolves in water, fits into my medicine cabinet, contours deformities in bone and muscle. The mannequins on your album cover remind me that all knowledge is orthopedic.
Thanks anyway for your well-boiled optimism,
Ramsey