vichy_from_lyon fyn gula for three nights, he had the very worst of sleep, if you could call it even that. he laid as if in a coffin, a vice to his head, pressing. squeezing to the point of nausea. it was utter futility, dreamds of mathematical nonsense, of arithmetic and chicken scratch on the chalkboard, of attainment without goal, prison-like demand. yet, on the fourth day, it was his birthday someone said. he walked into a cafe in the towne of his childhood and he saw the man who once tried to talk him into going to lyon. his name was vichy. vichy seemed more like a statue and appeared incredulous that he had recognized him after all these years. the bartender immediately pointed out that suzanne vega was sitting at another table. he turned around and their eyes locked. vichy kicked him hard under the table. "go up to her," he said in french. he wanted to go up to her and tell her he had just finished making a mix tape where he had used songs from two of her cds, but too much started happening at once. vichy's friends burst through the door and they kissed each other on both cheeks and his wheat beer fell on the floor and vichy's jack russel started lapping it up. he saw suzanne laughing, just laughing like a fucking lunatic and he thought maybe she'd write a song about it. 010415 ... Keemeers We were walking along the streets of Stratford-Upon-Avon and I had a desire for water. Instead of taking the bottle of fresh evian, I saw the word, "Vichy" and soon desired it. But Vichy was mineral water. And I spent the rest of the day pouring it out on the street, feeding the minerals to the street below my footsteps. 011112 ... birdmad collaborator 011112 what's it to you? who go blather from