It's Wednesday. No music until after noontime. Until after Hannah and her Witness cohorts end their neighborhood rounds. Though I'm sure it would be no deterrent, I feel like painting a swath of fresh red blood on the door sometimes.  Not to say that she's the angel of death. She wields- not death, but the blazing and nauseating zeal of an ark-maker that saves the world from itself. Or at least tries to.

I would like to play nice and answer the door sometimes. I often not. It often makes me feel like shit.