This is not a journal.

"Hi, God. I'm sorry if I'm being a bit disrespectful--do you mind? Can I just say a few things? I just feel like talking right now, but at 1 in the morning, everyone's gone to sleep. On the Road is a marvelous book, God, and how I wish I had a motorcycle--I'd like to travel around the country on a motorcycle, "Si! Manana!", and are they allowed on highways?, and God, right now I wish you really were Pooh Bear, and the world was a softer shade of gray, where I could go on ghost tours and visit the Extraterrestrial Highway without having to worry about demons and angels and cosmic battles with heavy implications, where I could jack off to whatever sorts of girls of whatever ages and maybe someday have sex with whoever wherever without being so wracked with pangs of you-sent guilt, where there won't ever be such a thing as awkwardness, or such a thing as fear--But God, I'm sort of frightened; are there demons, God?, and is there a you?--God, I see cold; I dream of a you not so cold and a bit more cuddly Pooh; God, are you?: Only chuckling at my self-conscious melodrama and all my odd quirks? Thinking it silly that I should be so worried silly about offending you? Are you ever longing to give your kid a bit of On the Road warmth from this broken-cracked-polystyrene reality, but can't you reach?--Are you as close as Michelangelo thought?"