Aha, A Letter From John Durban...

In the morning, sometime around 5, super shuttle is going to come and take me away to New York so that another airplane can take me to Berlin. Durban has been living in London for as long as I remember, and though he can be absent for good stretches of time, he does come back when due. His words, not as eloquent as mine, go something like this...

Burn - so Berlin, of all places when you come to my side of the world. I understand the obsession with Muse, they can kick, but the last time I was in Berlin, I think I got in a lot of trouble. I was in jail, maybe, and someone told me I was the devil's son before they told me to never return. Wherever I go, someone is always telling me to never return. It hasn't happened in a while, and I suppose they call this growing up, but I'm fucking sick of it so you better come with your hat on motherfucker. With your hat on.

I'm bringing a stack of books from Frey to Burroughs to Bukowski and enough lift me drugs to power though anything that days of deprived sleep and hours and hours of cross world flying can take out of me. And then of course, there's whatever JD decides to bring to town. Look out.

Floor to ceiling. We're gonna paint it.