pilaf burden My mother's a circus performer who eats nothing but Spaghetti-os and pilaf. Not the healthiest by any sorts, but a steady source of embarrassment for the family. We glide in and out like smoky shades in the silent shadows of the charred night scenery. It's a simple existence, but a happy one. Days are spent in effortless pseudo-pageants rolling and rolling across the green pillow in the backyard of the Buddhas. Life does not escape us, but we escape life (as we please). We simultaneously lust and are fulfilled. Rotting meat and tantric bonfires are not upsetting, nor are trapezoidal nightmares of Gaia's bleeding bleeding abyss. Obligations fall to the wayside; indulgent flurries of outbursts and extended hyperbolic orchestrals mark us as fugitives. 010503 ... . . 050106 what's it to you? who go blather from