Woman in Flames

Lalaland caught on fire today. A garbage dump in flames, but the actors made it to Starbucks on time for latte, and the sun was still shining in whatever part of the sky was not clouded with smoke. Bikko writes me from China, where she thinks a bird might have bit her and she sounds worried which worries me because worrying was not programmed into her emotions. I called her my muse again, which was a mistake same way it was the first time I called her that. In her orbit, the muse is bigger than the creator, and if I am in second place I shouldn’t be yakking about first place. But just as quickly she is warm on the phone, purring about the future, reminding me of the time I said something about taking care of a woman and she said:

“Don’t take care of me, Sean, just give me money so I can take care of you.”