Again listening, in obsessive fashion, to soundtrack from Lost in Translation x-specially track 5 that is Girls by Death in Vegas.
When life does not spring a Virgin Megastore in one's path one must make do, embrace the rehashing of a collection like a gallery on the skids without funding.
Last night, what small surrealisms in parts. After a solid night of working spun out of my Jetson Heliport in the most wee of hours and, as I had sipped mega-watt green tea all the night long, I was like so up to the task at hand for meeting Good W and his pals. Once I called him W and his response was that I was never to call him that again due to the alleged president's co-opting of the letter - I told him the right thing to do was to reclaim the, his, letter.
Four of us walked a few long blocks to the former offices of Middling City Orchestra, now housing several on its three stories. The MC Orchestra was one of my clients so to revisit this building and be able to meander into its nooks and crannies with abandon was a treat. Up in the attic (who the hell on the orchestra staff had to toil away the workday up in that hovel) one of the residents has a lovingly-organized display of death dolls from a graphic novel apparently. Rivalling anything I saw in the Satanists's home a while back, all black, intricate, ready for battling. It was at that point that Good W's pal Colleen told me of causing the jettisoning off of a young man on a water bed, as we looked down upon an air mattress resembling a water bed.
The residents shared stories of ghosts wandering this old home, about people drowning babies there when it was a home for unwed girls, about people slipping on the wooden stairs and feeling embracing arms about them. Not nearly as spooky as the shelves of death dolls.
Off now again to points beyond.

No love for death dolls.