I don't know what I'm doing, and it feels like a water-balloon lives in my heart. Eventually, I'm going to get some 48-year-old disease...it's been coming for awhile. Probably, something ordinary like cancer. Brain cancer. Ball cancer. Or maybe I'll live another forty years and be that guy on the park bench feeding birds, skin of leather, beard of nest, feeding birds pistachios...and all the birds are artists too.