Hi, my quarter-alive journal! Nice to SeeMagic in you. Though why we do it, nobody knows. Writing into the wilderness. Snow snows, bombs bomb, men play soldiers, women play making men and so on and on and on - till the Really Big Bomb makes the world reel. Then the women and men will be Badly ill. Three-quarter destroyed cripples creep like eels in the Last Mud, the bud of the First Mud. Buddies on the march. Squads definitely marching. Dogs & cats crazily Marching. Every living or half-living or nearly-not-living soul lazily grazing-'n'-gazing. The cra-a--a-aze... March... Subj.