Dear Philip K. Dick’s Robotic Head,
I have been pasting your caricature to milk cartons for years. With no response I deviated to boxes of wine and cases of beer. Your absence is excruciating-intolerable. I haven’t been able to leave the house much recently. I fill my head with mescaline and stretch-out across the celestial plain listening for your direction. I come to in vacant bus stations or at the salad bar in Old Country Buffet screaming or I wake up strapped to a gurney esophagus constricting face swollen covered in a rash. When did I eat peanuts? Why didn’t you stop me? In my recognizance I astral project. I employ witch-doctors. I hold seances. Faintly I hear “Shut up” through the wall. I answer the pounding door. My vision pulsating my neighbor’s voice is rubber-malleable in the air. I stare at her cleavage until darkness washes over. I have visions of a man clenching a dog running amidst shouting, the Power Puff Girls in close pursuit. I watch a man in a bear costume chased down and stabbed. This is all I can look forward to, citizens walking around carrying meat tenderizers. My bed full of broken glass. I am hoarding all the battery acid I can find. I staple dollar bills to my shirt whenever I go outside. And when I hear “Woo money” I jellyfish-splat the pavement. I want to give in. Let the reverberations and swirling detritus turn me into kipple, but I know somewhere beyond my vision is your pink beam of light searching for a conduit desperate-terrified. I hope you know I am searching too.
Are you okay?

Whoever posted this: thank you!