troubadour raze she gets real angry when i shoot myself in the head with a toy gun. it doesn't even hurt. maybe she thinks i want to do something worse to myself. something real. i don't know. i tell her when you haven't had a decent night's sleep in a year, you take your catharsis where you can get it. in a bedroom that used to be mine before they threw me in the basement, there's a man in a bright yellow suit. white pancake makeup flaking off of his face. a casualty of sweat. you know who he looks like? dick tracy. but without the hat. he's talking to this other guy who says he's just a pale imitation of somebody else. dick flips the polarity and says it's called being a troubadour. if we never paid tribute to the artists we admire, their voices wouldn't survive long enough for anyone else to hear. 231024 what's it to you? who go blather from