the sky flickers. near to the end of the reel. i pull at the door. the projection booth is locked. i hold my breath (as though i need to breathe. being the son of dog has it advantages.) i am bait. i am master baiter. i am a lure. i am allure. i look at my waterproof watch and watch the moments slide, circular, down the drain of the tub. art is not a choice. it is a reason. slowly. the reason reasons. and it loses. the televsion crackles back on and caresses me. "12 new sins! operators are standing by!". i will be honest. i am scared. hold my hand. i dont want to face this by myself. and slowly, i grasp my own hand, waiting for the world to end. and i feel the tickle. the the tickle of hope and its groovy.