Dearest Ernest

Towards the duckpond of humility. The day begins, the year almost awakens, the battle of Alamo is almost won - revolution calls. Well work beckons, summons, haunts and flirts. I stoop loop the loop and who? Who. Its Just a simple call, the birdsong of the indecisive, the tropical heat of the nausea of fear, will I disappear? Oh dear. Its between you and me you know, its not something I want everyone to know, troubling times. Troubling times these. For me. I thought perhaps we could ignore the consequences, but times got a habit of recurring and gaining restitution on your time, and mine. Our time. Burning the history of Russia's soil in our motorcars. Burning the past to power my IBook  G4. Maybe I want peace, but it seems so very quiet.