John Lennon's widow wrote to me for therapy to overcome her tragic loss. I replied,
'Dear Prudence - Aisumasen (I'm sorry), Dear Yoko,
Good morning, good morning from me to you. I imagine out the blue it's so hard you're crippled inside. Nobody loves you when you're down and out, not even Her Majesty, so you gotta carry that weight. Oh Yoko! How do you sleep? How? Whatever gets you through the night? Do you twist and shout? I want to tell you, woman, there's a place to cry, baby, cry - yah yah - while my guitar gently weeps too. Think for yourself, for no one else within or without you, of cold turkey. It's easy if you try, yes it is! No beef jerky, savoy truffle, honey pie (even wild honey pie) and it's just like starting over, because, girl, all you need is love so we all shine on. Just give me some truth! This'll please Mr Postman, who doesn't mind games, and I don't mean Mr Mustard, who's just a jealous guy. Goodnight.
Doctor Robert, Yesterday, from strawberry fields back in the USSR to New York City's Attica State, via Penny Lane (Meat City)
The End.
PS I love you... Here comes the son, so love you too, Mother's beautful boy (darling boy). Love me do, this boy, just because I'm mother nature's son and my mummy's dead.'
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