 So, the first encounter that I had with Howell, it was my first semester of school at Seattle University. I ended up transferring to Montana State. And I had three really great classes that kind of drove me off the intellectual deep end, which I think is what makes a class great. And it was also when I first found out that, or at least the science started showing up, that I was suffering from pretty severe depression and pretty severe social anxiety. That was debilitating. I was in days in bed reading postmodern literature, which was the class that I encountered Howell in. And if any of you have read any kind of postmodern literature, it's all pretty depressing. So it's pretty good for a depressed person to read, not at all. And when I finally came across Howell, it was a piece that I could relate to. It was a piece that described my anger and my frustration with what was happening to me and what I was being exposed to in the world around me. Growing up in Billings, Montana, you don't really, I guess you don't necessarily encounter the world problems upfront. And moving to Seattle and seeing the poverty. We had a juvenile detention center down the street that I volunteered at seeing that and seeing, I guess, the pains of the world finally up close really made this resonate with me. So I'll be reading the second part of Howell. Children screaming under the stairways, boys sobbing in armies, old men weeping in the parks. Molok, Molok, nightmare of Molok. Molok, the loveless mental Molok. Molok, the heavy judge of men. Molok, the incomprehensible prison. Molok, the crossbones, soulless jailhouse and Congress of Sorrows. Molok, whose buildings are judgment. Molok, the vast stone of war. Molok, the stunned governments. Molok, whose mind is pure machinery. Molok, whose blood is running money. Molok, whose fingers are ten armies. Molok, whose breast is a cannibal dynamite. Molok, whose ear is a smoking tune. Molok, whose eyes are a thousand blind windows. Molok, whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovah's. Molok, whose factories dream and croak in the fog. Molok, whose smoke stacks and antennae crown the cities. Molok, whose love is endless oil and stone. Molok, whose soul is electricity and banks. Molok, whose poverty is the specter of genius. Molok, whose fate is a cloudless or cloud of sexless hydrogen. Molok, whose name is the mind. Molok, in whom I sit lonely. Molok, in whom I dream angels crazy in Molok. Cocksucker in Molok. Laugh, love and manless in Molok. Molok, who entered my soul early. Molok, in whom I am consciousness without a body. Molok, who frighten me out of my natural ecstasy. Molok, whom I abandon. Wake up in Molok. Light streaming out of the sky. Molok, Molok. Robot apartments, invisible suburbs, skeleton treasures, blind capitals, demonic industries, spectral nations, invincible mad houses, granite cops, monstrous bombs. They broke their backs, lifting Molok to heaven, pavements, streets, radio, tons, lifting the city to heaven, which exists and is everywhere about us. Visions, omens, hallucinations, miracles, ecstasies, gone down the American River. Dreams, adorations, illuminations, religions, the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit. Breakthroughs over the river, flips and crucifications, gone down the flood, highs, epiphanies, despairs, 10 years, animal screams and suicides, minds, new loves, mad generation, down on the rocks of time. Real holy laughter in the river, they saw it all, the wild eyes, the holy yells, they bade farewell, they jumped out the roofs to solitude, waving, carrying flowers down the river into the street.