Nostradamus was a pussy.

Seriously. He was too busy studying to play tag and stickball. He wanted to be a doctor, and he wrote poetry. And that name — “Our giving,” from the Latin. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I mean, yeah, I would have changed my name, too, if my folks had tagged me Michel, but Jesus, how pretentious. Did he think he was a rock star or something? Even Jesus had a last name…

And Edgar Cayce — oh, don’t get me started. Farm boy. Kentucky, for Chrissakes! Fell asleep on a spelling book and woke up knowing the meaning of life, or somesuch. He went down like a brick, though, when the uppercuts and left hooks were flying. Even the old witch Mother Shipton got in a shot or two on him.

Me — I stick by the dreams. Okay, sure, I had taken about half a sheet of some seriously high-grade blotter just before the peyote kicked in, and the previous day’s David Lynch marathon on AMC probably didn’t help. But any dream you remember three years later must be true, right?

Right?

I still freak out when I hear Miles wail. That cat could blow a horn, but really, did he have to do it so well?

(from The Journal of John the Apostle, Volume 3, recently published by Insomniactive Press; the journals are claimed to be approximately 2000 years old, discovered in a remote underground cave in western Egypt, though the presence of Liquid Paper on some pages seems to refute this)