Mr. Smith this is Mr. Gun-in-his-hand. Mr. Gun-in-his-hand this is Mr. Smith. Shoot. I just hope that somehow some of this hits between the eyes. Or just left of breastbone center - thru the heart. If not. roll the whole thing up tight, dip it in paraffin and when it is dry, cut it up for fire starters. Stay warm. It can be a cold world.

I've spent twenty years writing and re-writing and agonizing over words and their power. All in silence. Until Busker Kibbutznik happened. Now some of those words are available as an aural attack. Wrestle through these for yourself a time or two. I think you will find them like a woman or a town. The more familiar you are with them the more they mean to you, and the less it takes to stir your emotions.

This is the version for those of you that prefer the silence, or just can't understand what the guy on the record is saying (that would be me). If you prefer a middle ground, rustle the pages or hum to yourself.

Thanks to everyone. Oh the angst of forgetting someone. We'll leave the light on in the frig.