I may not be much to look at, but I can hijack an ice age with my organ tan. I died in the desert, or the desert-like place of the war god. I became a bale of hay, among five child heroes, and now, I’m everywhere. I’m all over the place. It’s boring, really. It’s been too long a time. I miss the awful castles, the dust in my throat and eyes, the smell of blood. Full of women, my instant sleep, more than I remember. And babies and the rest. I follow pianos- nothing there is new.