MisterDoctor Greenteeth's Pointless Forest of Music and Shit: The trick is, there is no trick. And a Holy Mountain, Sleep.

I am violently addicted to the small moments of joy. When the despair laps up again on the shore, as it always will, I shake and froth and begin to hallucinate with the pain of withdrawal. I latch on to people who radiate joy. Strangely enough they are generally sad people, who have glimpsed behind the curtain but cannot live there. I suppose I am the same. Kicked out of heaven we'd wander the earth looking for it's shadows. I don't think this is my life for success, only survival. But again, I am addicted. I need it like milk for survival. And like any true junkie I always need a more and purer joy to get my fix. I'll go without food, spend all my money in the darkest places, those with the deepest shadows, trying to not look as though I'm looking. The trick is, there is no trick. You simply have to be there when it comes. What I mean to say is that you cannot actively search out the moments. They'll see you coming with your desperation and your greed from days away and skitter around the corner before you've even caught the scent of it. I have no trouble divulging these secrets. They'll do no one any good who hasn't already come upon them honestly, trudging through the depression smelling of bile and chronic masturbation.

The door to the church is directly before you. But you have to know that there is a church before you can see it. Go to New Orleans. At the corner of Bourbon and Music it stands, shining and singing. There is a train, too, that opens on the doors of the endless universe. Where you catch that train I cannot say, only that I have ridden it, alone and with others and when it passed through the gates we all became silent and laughed inside our hearts. It lives too in certain dreams, guided by the dead you've loved and the living souls who love you still.

Or stand beneath the dawn smiling towards Venus and say, “Good morning, Star.” Say it quietly and with the voice you'd give to an old lover. Sing to the Moon, “Bela Luna! Te Amo, mami, te amo!” in your loudest voice but not a shout or a yell, and throw your arms around her. She will show you then the world behind the world.

But you cannot stay there. It is not time while our feet are still stuck upon the earth to live anywhere but here, painful and wildly joyous, little human animals scratching through our lives like chickens. But if you know that there is a beauty in it all it may sustain you yet.

This story has no end.