A guy

down the hall is playing the saxophone. Alto-sax. I am in an old and busted building, the old studio. His playing is soul-full, a stream of imagined '40s images pass through me. Lofts in the Bronx, beaten up basement clubs, shit like that.

I see me.

It hurts but the sax is soothing, dreamy, sunshine after rain. Not really happy.

In the endless toil of everyday living this is just another day in the life, nothing new, nothing changes, just the endless increments of the second-counter on my clock, another second whooses by. Do I get wiser?

If I could imagine myself anywhere, where would it be?

What would I do?

Something in me evokes the old hunter-gatherer theme again.

The air-waves are filled with poison, blotting out all calm. My synapses fires and mis-fires and no one man can tell what is what. I think in time we will know, but will it be too late -can we wait? Is it wise?

I feel trampled on, lost, I distance myself at ever increasing degrees despite the fact that I yearn for close contact. Skin.

It's all hormones they say. Just the biology wanting its. Not very reassuring.
It appears I have a massive shortage of oxytocin, I was at a party yesterday and should have made moves. Instead I was passive. I'll die passive. I'll die without oxytocin, maybe they'll put it in a pill; I could buy it and enjoy the wonderfully destressing effect. I remember it you know.

b