July 5th, 2002 - 2:27 p.m.

This exile will be the death of me.

A warmish coolish day. A shining sun, grass green lawns. Flowers blooming in their beds. A day for doing nothing. Saying nothing. Thinking nothing.

We need a good old fashioned riot to stir the blood.

We need a swift kick to the head.

We need something to do.

Anything.

A cause.

A drama.

Where we would have violence and mayhem, we have birds and the tender sway of trees in a breeze. Where we would have revolution and political assassination, we have kids playing Marco Polo in a pool and the chatter of dishes greeting forks hullo.

Right. Never you mind.

N.

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