There they are again, in that timeless space they inhabit, grazing in the field as if they owned the place. As if they were the alpha predators and not the hunter who built the blind beneath which they stand.

But we can’t write about deer can we. Must not write about deer, my precious. Mustn’t drive away our readers with stories about cats, dieting, cello frustration or wacky kids.

Or, wait, you don’t actually come here to read about that do you? I mean, I could probably write about something else for a change. Like, I was at a men’s clothing shop once in downtown Vienna and saw some famous guy shopping there. No idea who he was, but he had that rich and successful aura they have, and some babe half his age with a huge rack and a silk blouse open down to her navel was helping him pick out ties. I looked at them, they looked at me. No idea what they saw but I felt like a piece of cheese at a fondue contest.

You know, essential to the success of the over all scheme, but still just a small piece of cheese.

Do any of you have any idea what a marvelous feeling of triumph and satisfaction it is to finally crack the Jacques Offenbach cello duet you’ve been working on for weeks and weeks and just feel that music flow out of those F-holes? If you do, send me a mail because I sure as hell don’t, although I sense I’m getting closer. I’m sure it’s a grand feeling.