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thank ptahnemhotep that's over - what a beautiful coming of age tale, a heartfelt story of freedom and redemption, of finding one's way in the bad big world, rising above the challenges of institutional life ... a tour of the circus, a celebration of the human asylum, a narrative of perseverance and pursuing one's dream, a love poem to absurdity and futility, a great revolt against the pressures to conform.

 

but as the committee of satirical memory of the society of patasa's sitting around smoking ganja someone muses about what jude's been up to - whether he's still working for satan in oaxaca, if he died of despair and drugs, if he shockingly returned to professional existence, whether he married a rich mexican and settled into a placid life of househusbandry.

 

after years of searching we finally hear something approximating his description might be down in the atacama desert munching on dried liolaemus fabiani turds and drinking fog - we write him asking how he feels about his work decades after creating it and here's his response which takes six months to get to us, strangely written with llareta seeds stuck to candelaris stems.

 

comrade inmates, i am a fiction, you are a fiction, history is a fiction, novel is a fiction, this has been a work of fiction, names characters businesses places events locales and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental, goodbye

 

tbh the committee's disappointed