Plush nails breathe chocolate extortion and video blur without which none of us would be here today, the glowing of which graphic artist Jamie Kurtz captures diligently in a, would you guess it, day-glo orange, pulling (or rather drawing) a chisel-tipped Sharpie over her paper canvas, wheezing, wishing the phone would ring. Bubbles chatter as they drift quickly away from the surface of the light-emitting diode, which is for all intents and purposes not participating in the conversation. I began long after beginning, only to begin again. This is not true.

"Seldom?" asks a grunting Phillip Screwdriver. It is a rhetorical question, so a neutral third party answers it while I undo the results of my inaction. I'm in a really bad mood. Apples are being carefully assembled and then smashed to bits which do "the twist" as if it were some kind of dreary contractual obligation. A subway car crumbles through the tiny vaulted ceiling of the thimble and I'm caught in the heat of virtue. Why has driftwood been so slippery lately? And why? And why? And why? And why? And why?

It is an often but seldom Order Your Commerative World Peace Chess Today And Save $30.00 that brings me to the door on a cold, winter evening. Or rather brings the door to me; it steps through the door to my room (I guess in one sense, the doors step through each other) and opens to reveal the sunny landscape outside and a gleaming metal replica of the wicked witch of the north. Is there a blame referral service? There are two million people to blame and I can't pick one all by myself. But I guess that's my own fault. How how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how how? Who? What good is asking questions going to do? Statements won't help. Not even exclamations will!