Miles To go Before I sleep

Per Yngve Ohlin
January 16, 1969 - April 8, 1991

I really do need to get some sleep. I was up all night creating the mini-zine issue in honor of my co-author. The connection was shit and kept crashing. I felt like I was back in the early 90's using AOL, it was so bad--and I haven't used dial-up in at least seven years. So I didn't forget, but I'm not going to rehash here what I said better there. However I do want to provide some links, so here they are:
The Massively Misunderstood Mad Metalhead Issue of New Strange World
The official book website so you can buy a copy of our book (written by a crazy incarnate person and a crazy ghost) for your crazy self and all your crazy friends and relatives
The drive for the World Federation for Mental Health on Changing the Present
The drive for the World Federation for Mental Health on Facebook

I have to include this even though the production quality is non-existent because it is very rare and because the person that prepared it did not see the need to include that fucking picture! Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. I'm about ready to go take a dump on the door step of everyone that goes posting that picture because they think its "cool" or something. Suicide is not "cool." Y'all suck. Do the world a favor and go flush yourself.
For the rest of you, here's "Disgusting Semla."

Feel free to copy and use this if you'd like. I'd appreciate credit, but the important thing is getting the message out. So I'm not about to go kamikaze if I see it being used without my being credited.

For my co-author

This was supposed to be published on April 8, in honor of my co-author. And though I didn't remember to do so, I thought of him--and with him--on that date. He chose this.

"There's a stench in the air, which, from this distance underground, might be the smell of either death or of spring--I hope of spring. But don't let me trick you, there is a death in the smell of spring and in the smell of thee as in the smell of me. And if nothing more, invisibility has taught me my nose to classify the stenches of death."
--Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (1947)

I suffer from springtime depression as well. Most people don't realize it, but the time when suicide rates are highest in the Northern hemisphere is not the recognized December holiday season, but Spring: April specifically.
With the current climate of consciousness, and for me the economic climate in my country of residence, I wonder how we'll ever get our message across. Is everything all in vain? I keep trying, because I think it's very important. Even if it only ever comes across posthumously, I have to do it. For better or worse, it is my calling. He tells me he's sorry for any distress becoming involved in this has caused me. But I don't blame him. I blame all the fuckers putting up roadblocks at every turn!
Someday we'll reflect on what we've gone through. And if in the end we made a difference, we'll celebrate together with the few that dare to see things our way.