I dreamt of money—I think that I may be able to get a windfall. Early morn was a melody of sunlight. I was able to sleep well thank God to the medication. Doctors have diagnosed me with Bipolar disorder. I am planning a trip to Ghana to meet my significant other. I want to make passionate love to her. Tomorrow I got a Skype interview with a university from Eritrea. I hope it will go well. I am swimming in the sea I want the universe to dance to my tunes. I think all religions are manmade. I live in the sea of luck. I have kept a 1$ bill in my purse. I hope that it will bring luck to me. My wife is a sexless corpse. Sometimes I feel like living my life again. I would like to start from the place of birth. May be I could live life as a better man. I wonder if there’s a spirit world. The Devil is not dancing to my tunes. I feel so nostalgic about the first kiss I have made. It was so passionate, erotic, sweet and sensual and I could feel my lover’s tongue and taste sweet honey from her mouth. I mourn for my lover. It’s so sad that she rejected me. There’s Bumper Draw of 12 Million hosted by the UAE govt.; I hope to win it. I am tired of working. I have started working from 2002 and I am fed up. I think all religions are mad made. Religions evolved from animism to textuality. I sometimes long for a teaching job in the US. The moon was out yesterday shining like a crystal ball. Poems floated in the sky. My significant other delivered a baby boy. It’s long time since I have boozed. I long to taste Scotch whisky. When did I start writing? I think it was in 2017. When will I get freedom in material matters? When will the universe be kind to me? Is reincarnation true? Why does God perpetuate the world with evil? I don’t know the answers but I have only questions. I write out of sheer necessity. I love writing. After postmodernism what is the genre that the novel would take? The age of storytelling is over. We come to a Novel where there is situationism and a kind of reflective philosophical fiction. Writing is a matter of intertextuality. What is the Philosophy of the novel? A novel is a semblance of many elements. A novel can be an Oedipal phantasmagoria. Words speak volume of words. The writer has to maneuver his tropes so well. The writer is caught in a state of ambush of the mind. The writer self-reflects his angst in ironies. Words are poetic prose. The writer comes to understand the meaning of I. The first person is a magnificent tool of self exploration. Why am I writing? I don’t know. My soul tells me to write and I am caught up in its art. Writing is sheer music—the cacophony of minds gets unveiled through writing. I am wondering of the possibility whether Devils exist. I have worshipped the Devil but I have come across no luck. The Devil cannot be appeased. I slam an irony on the head of the Devil. Rebellion is fun. The Devil became a star of iconoclasm. Is the Christian worldview correct? I can understand the human Christ but not the divine. I am always wondering where the Trinity was when Christ was on the earth? I am fed up of teaching kids. Kids are a bother, a bloody nuisance. I need to buy an apartment and live cozily with my significant other devoting the rest of my days to writing. I love watching the green paddy fields. Stalks of green do a psychedelic dance in the wind. Paddy fields are luscious with storks and cranes and they are the earth’s melody. I keep on wondering about the inner meaning of time, the time of the lived self. What is it? Is the writer a self or the other? Is there Hell, Heaven and eternity? I remember my uncle, a priest who went to death when he was praying. It was who did the cleaning. What peaceful divine face he had? I love Jung’s theory of the anima and the animus. Yes all males posses a sacred feminine. I am particularly fond of Jung’s Spirit Guide: Philemon. Jung called it his alter ego or higher self. There’s beautiful photo of him. Will the forces of the cosmos be kind to me? I am sure they will. I am going through a rough patch of having no money in my purse. I am wondering when my days of poverty will end. I had a class to take in the afternoon. Repeating the same things over and over is a dull thing. Saw a yellow butterfly dancing gaily. I caught it and admired its beautiful texture. Butterflies make the art of wish to come to true. Universe will you be kind to me in 2019. I long for a material bonanza and I hope to win many windfalls. Night is setting and the souls are flying to their nests. How they drift like dancers in the sky. What am I? What is the self? I don’t know answers but I ask only questions. I am the many women that I have loved; I am countries that I have traveled; I am the books I have read; I am a consciousness of art. When will I bed with my beloved? My wife is refusing to have sex with me and I feel sad about it. Poems are a bed of wine and soft is the taste of flesh. I can’t satisfy a woman by penetration. I lick her cunt and make her come. My wife pooh poohs the idea of a fellatio. Thanks to these blogs I have an arena for writing and I feel happy about it.