doing_the_ghost_walk birdmad The surprising heat of a September morning, the dust and the acrid fumes of diesel exhaust will, i imagine, be the atmosphere that waits for me in hell. The shimmering waves of heat distortion where the street narrows toward the vanishing_point on either horizon (and though i'm well between, i'm _never_ immune to them) a big, old, black bird on a bright blue morning, obvious and invisible at the same time, doing my best not to break my neck on reflective windows, because sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between clear skies and well-hidden dead ends ("I've got wild staring eyes...") stepping carefully along the path, staying clear of unforgiving wheels (because some days do a fine enough job of running me down without the help of heavy machinery) doing my best to be neither the dogs nor wht they leave along the way. 040901 what's it to you? who go blather from