I’m holding open a copy of Codename Prague and writing this entry on a blank page with a red Bic rubber grip roller ball pen and I’m reading the entry, aloud, into the microphone, as I write it. Sometimes I pause to deliver menacing crowdstares. I just delivered one. I’m delivering another one right now, writing “freehand,” i.e., not looking at the page. Now I’m looking at the page again. I’m standing on a vast hardwood stage, naked beneath the crackling spotlights. I’m wearing a bird suit. The silverdome is at full capacity – around 80,000. There’s a lot of noise. Cheering. Young girls screaming, tearing out their Beehives and Sandra Dees. I can’t hear myself speak. But I can feel my lips moving. Now I hear music. The Ninth. When it comes to the Scherzo I can viddy myself very clear running and running on like very light and mysterious nogas, carving the whole litso of the creeching world with my but-throat britva. And there’s the slow movement and the lovely last singing movement still to come . . .