Calling Michael Bellicher

My room has two windows. They look out on a walled courtyard. My view is restricted, but great, because it is all my own. Every inch of it. Every molecule of it. Not the air of course, but the rest.
I sit at my table, a small desk lamp at my side, and watch the morning sun reach through the trees, touching the windowpane, forming visible rays through the dust on the glass. Outside combine harvesters and other large agricultural equipment roll by, on its way from one field to the next. Life here is filled with sounds, but they all move on, leaving a deep quiet between them. A working quiet. Mister Miller will not be back, but I am calling on Michael Belliger to pick up his blog. He needs to, because a new story is unfolding.

Off the air

The radio has stopped. Yesterday was the final broadcast and I couldn't stop smiling, radiating, beaming right back at the machine. I can do that. After six and a half weeks of hits, I am feeling a little worse for wear. It is time to tune out, to slip under the radar, to go to ground.
Hope it stops raining.