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Incredible weather today—nice and sunny, temperatures up, a fragrant spring breeze. So goes a wi-fi coffee shop entry flipping around in the wind like a plastic bag. And the next release of Seven Soldiers is out, a plus. Flower pedals fall down around us, and there are babies, small children being led along by their Easter parents, deciding which shop to enter next. See, this is the market square during lunch time. Busy cops circling and ticketing cars and scoping women.

I’m becoming a teacher so I can hate children.

Better that than getting your fingers cut off in machinery.

I don’t say anything. Piano fingers type the blog, put it down, get the thoughts down. There. Sent. Sent to ether. Return to sender. A scribbler’s flow. His sense of things. His feel. His take on the world around him. Radio from College Park to Laurel.

He leaves his body because he falls off the wall. But nevermind all that. That’s old hat. Or is it. Um, 3-2-1, when he returned was startled to find he could shoot lasers from his fingertips. Bored, shot up his old high school. I used to go here, you bitches.