Going to sleep and waking up chemically castrated, unable to summon an erection, much less experiencing an involuntary one, no matter how alluring the woman, is the most terrible feeling of suffocation a man can ever endure. There was no victim. Reagan and Fripp’s pretext belli was still a virgin after dating me for a year. I cried too much, Pittsburgh lisps. The British post their dacoits in online chat to pick a fight with me, justifying it by Lennon and AIDS, full-knowing their own assassins were behind Gail Burstyn, initialed for their country. Mick Jagger’s crimson horde brag for him, waving his willies in my face, having splattered the walls of campus with pictures of my decapitated fetus from the attack prostitute they hired to mislead me, who I had wanted to marry, forging an isolation ever since for the cackling malice of avenging Midori Goto, picking off an American poet in free smacks, and not one of my peers has the loyalty to even my father from Pitt and the WW2 Navy to question how the British targeted me, an Eisenhower son, who my father knew, how I was brutally incapacitated as a child, stalked, watched, prevented from identifying that the people on high in Pittsburgh who sponsored Gail Burstyn are evil and were setting me up by every manner of civil deception, so that the English, having finished their program of diabolical deceit, could laugh at the cudda saved John Lennon but was hunting a virgin who they made into sex films beginning in grade school. who they deafened so he could never challenge their music empire, who they castrated so he could never have children, as a sacrifice to the Japanese War God Yoko Ono, poisoning me irredemptively in the mouth, while making AIDS into a ripper hatter war game, with the blessing of Irish cops, to finish the job on the Kennedys.