minefield Phil An impulse to bee line through the tragic minefield of umbrellas, with a pair of scissors in each hand. A flicker of shadow in the ruddy gloom, as your weapons melt like wet noodles dropped into the sand. You run across your own helmet until it rolls over and you cower beneath it, munching on the burnt paper and sleeping. Everyone else is somehow ahead of you, with a better view of the horizon; backing into each of their shell homes. One day you find their mirrors, the ones you used to stand outside and enjoy looking into, broken. Burned like ash, lying in a hot crater, each knot in the gooey escape rope, made our of your intestines, is poignant. 240620 ... ego hum thank you 240623 ... ego hum our fear is their friend 240623 ... ego hum . 240716 what's it to you? who go blather from