time hasn't counted since the 7th

*this is from the notebook labeled "st paul's/st.andrews" 

caitlin, 

I don't count time without my medication. 

This was a decently important day this notebook logged. I live with the famous Ray Kachel @ St. Paul's / St. Andrew's. 

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/12/05/111205fa_fact_packer

I mentioned this before when I brought this to 86th media at OWS. Whoever metro news is he told me to pay attention to him while on the lowest psychological level, I was told he's important. Through the levels of my hell the cobblepots take care of me they communicate to me they help me to fix what has been done to me via Michael Bloomberg or whoever had claimed to be this man. This man is a bad luck talisman in my world, makes the police appear (the opposite of the reason I started writing his name on my arm). 

They undo what Harvey Weinstein had done to me, this mirror mirror belief that I live in my dorm room as I become homeless and ugly. The names of enemies are bad luck in my world. I live in a universe where I summon New York entities with James Hughes as Al. People on computers who have to have some form of wealth to speak to me, some place in high society to be involved in a project of the mind that allows me to become homeless but never frees me despite any direct wish. The ancient lettering of angelic script this is my reflection on them who help me through hell. Hughes brings together all of the art like agent smith everyone must pretend to be him he is the name of my angel

spirit guide = my friend from my dorm room who I didn't like because he told me he came from a pro background upstate and filmed me with spy cams. In 2006, at the project's start. 

John A Hobson was a good man
He used to loan me books and mic stands
He even got me a subscription to the Socialist Review
Listening to records in his basement
Old folk songs about the government
"it's love of money, not the market," he said, "these fuckers push on you.
And freedom yells, it dont cry.
Whatever sells will decide.
But there is no hell when you die.
So dont look so worried."
He got a night life
Lost his day job
Pushing paper, swinging pendulums
Anything to serve a function or to occupy some time
You have got to earn this living somehow
You are good as dead without a bank accound
But it is funny how alive he felt, down in that unemployment line
With all the trash at his feet
The pools of piss in the street
All of that filthy empathy for the way we're feeling
The billboards shade
The flags they wave
The anthem was playing loud
The baseball game was letting out
Then all at once he saw the dust
And heard every tiny sound
Got in his truck and turned around
Drove out through the crowd
And the cops drove out past that center mall
Out past that sickening sprawl
Out past that fenced in gold
And maybe he lost control fucking with the radio
But I bet the stars seemed so close at the end

This is about Hughes and his future leadership role of occupy. Al; who Sarah O'donnahuge loved, beloved image of the 3rd girl worth attempting to date as I learn to edit and keep a 4.0 Even in reality I didn't get girls but only cared about clipping my ball hair/metrosexualism. During one of these clippings he tells Jason Direnberger "we could always promote him as an actor if he doesn't finish the book" 

this later leads to pretending I'm an actor in Bushwick as I host a show to win you that never existed. 

Even then in 2008 Hughes looked out for me in the long run. 

Other people in my universe: 

Tracey Flick, mystique of my world who played the many roles of all my segmented memories who enforces concepts but has an inability to make these concepts happen without James Hughes. For a long period of time she played you. She is princess toadstool, you princess Daisy from the live action film, the princess who inherits the mushroom kingdom and all of Brooklyn with the economy. 

Jpeg - shoots a graphic at the mayor as a cartoon character who helps me get up to shower and fight the lethargy placed in me without my medication/guides me from this awful curse associated to Harvey Weinstien's name being written on my body and a false princess being invented by either Brock Daves or Michael Bloomberg in Paris Hilton. Harvey Weinstein invents something called stuck like glue for me to be unable to move my body/get people out of my body with focus methods. 

There's Harvey Weinstein the enemy. The representation of the producer who takes all credit for all art ruins the concept: Dennis Hope (Jimmy Fallon's character in almost famous). But this person is directly in my mind created amnesia in fairfield when I decided all of my life's existence is to marry you. 

This is where I pause the halfway mark on the notebook I label St. Paul's / St Andrew's. 

2nd half: 

Every night I bring the person at the door of St Andrew's food something so they like and remember me one of the cobble pots taught me this they're teaching me Dale Carnegie "how to win friends and influence people" they're fixing with Harvey Weinstein did. 

I'm held by these people in this who want to enforce spirituality and these fucking AMORC pamphlets but the only spiritual mind thing that was ever real was my medication. This is what I was to forget in hell's kitchen. I finish the day at occupy wall street reading Foam Magazine in the bathroom. 

I love you. 

-Little Nemo 

(christopher) 

I'm sure I will mention this again since I live by this album as a symbol of what's happened to me and my refusal to acknowledge myself as homeless or anything other than a project others refuse to come directly to.