Cough. Piano. The return of the don't talk backs and ...the unopened email to god play themselves out to me right before sole, eyedea and the pedestrian spit wiry flows for ten minutes before eyedea pulls your card. "These book reports of nineteenth century French utopias always end up in eulogies anyway," the pedestrian states. "Well don't they?" Bill Martin was recording some James Family stuff for a while on his new preamp, which strangely enough reminds me of reading the Preamble to the United States Constitution.

I keep guessing at Al's name-that-song routine, but I fail to get most of them. I guess I can only keep trying. Trying to keep my soul (first word that I hear next). That's just it, isn't it? Most of my original work is based off of classics or neo-classicism. Everything that I write or read or hear or think can be found in a Jacques-Louis David painting. Damn his triangular brilliance at such a late time in my career. I will be forever lost to Smith's covers and gumshoe apprentices working their way past my office in an orderly, yet cartoonish fashion. I cannot wait until they grow up young Zouaves in an Acadian world full of talking fish and strange ambient light with symbiote qualities.