I don't want it, I don't want you, I don't want me, I'm confused, you know. This is big: this morning I was telepatically watching our hitman get out from the bathtub and then his house to board a bus to the Gare du Nord and three hours later arriving in King's X (this is not a kiss - you idiot - it stands for a cross), then suddenly changing his mind, returning back to Paris, and send instead Armadillo on the same route to ring my bell. You wouldn't believe how these morons behave shamelessly. The excuse: Armadillo pretended to be a literary critic interviewing me on my secret grandfather Piero Welby, the well known euthanasia poet (guess you've heard about him - he's the Caliban linked on the top of this blog). I played their game and during the fake inteview I read in his brain all the ways he was planning to kill us in our own house. A horror movie, I'm still shivering. Couldn't I control these criminals' minds we'd already be dead. However, there's a fascinating side in this fight of powers, a subtle and extremely challenging one, intellectually. And, I must admit, sexually as well. Today I "felt" him, we both felt each other on the sofa. I'm sorry, please forgive me, such things happen, but rest assured it won't happen again. You certainly deserve a kisses' overdose - XXXXXXX - yours Miss Welby