Eiji Tunsinagi
Scribe

...in America, that is.

[3:34 PM, Atlanta, GA. A small room in the East Wing of the now, slightly demolished parliament building.]

"Hi, I'm from the American-Norwegian Musical Library Society of America."

"Uh huh, nice to meet you... I guess. You know that title makes absolutely no sense, right?"

"Well, yes, we were going more for eccentricity with the title than logic."

"I see. It's

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I'm paraphrasing here, mind you, for style, but mostly for everyone's patience:

"I have this friend, well, work acquaintance, really -- told her about the time I punched a shark in the nose. Strangely enough, I had her going, until she asked me where I was when in happened -- on the spot now, what do I spit out -- really stammering -- Vanuatu! I didn't believe it myself. She asked me where that was and I tried to give her a geographical reference (something about the Mariana

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It seems like it's my business, this whole trouble of beauty and things that are beautiful. I mean, I can't go outside without being blinded by sunlight through leaves, glinting this and that, distant scents (fresh cut grass, lingering cigarette smoke from that odd neighbor, the smell I think I can write that an odorless wind might have, etc) -- and for what?

What am I supposed to do with this, this, with my day? What... this? Does a blog qualify beauty? If I choose not to blog...

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Originally Posted by Eiji Tunsinagi

I do think you’re nice, who told you I don’t? You come around, I come around -- you know how these things are. We don’t have to talk, now, do we? There is light and wind and all that good stuff, we’re in the city, it’s bright, there’s the sound of a horn or pothole in your rear view mirror and oh -- now we’re driving.

So of course I think you’re nice. I’m in your car now. I don’t ride with strangers, and I don’t hang out with meanies so that means you must be nice. Anyone who

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