Hi, this is a message from the needle stuck in Phillip Stewart Hoffman's arm when they found him:

Judge not lest ye be outed as a hypocrite, you clueless goody female jewish horse face. That guy who wondered as he wandered praises something/someone that this won't happen to you. Like doin' X when you have high blood pressure, what were you thinking? Celebrity heartbreak can't come close to the catharsis from spooning with woodrow planted and holding on for excessive minutes. Childhood dreams realized. The answer is "yes, I do call this living". It's not important what it would be like to get off this magic carpet and give running an Iron Man a try. To pretend to be like the brake fluid addict who can stop anytime would impress who? Doesn't this all look like words mentioned previously which were not under the influence? Fixated on strands of sensibility that dribble out like a storyteller with the 'heimers. Good thing some of the poems made it to here 'cause there aren't any more all manic to get out. Be gone with ya, slippery psalmist and we'll check back later to see if it's a good riddance or what.