I've been silent for a week now, maybe those bats have finally left and it's safe to come out and type. The clicking of the keyboard has been known to whip them into a mad frenzy so that I just played it safe and wrote my entries on the sidewalk outside of the apartment with one of those fat blocks of chalk that sorority girls use to announce their Bulimics for Hunger campaign or whatever other charitable event inspires the painting of hair bows. Unfortunately, the rain came and washed it all out into the yard, even a short story about a boy who does his part to end a dreadful drought by drinking 10 cups of coffee. Though at the time, I found a much better phrase than “dreadful drought.” One avoids alliteration at all cost when writing on sidewalks for fear that the repetition of comparable letters will reveal an unsettled hand. But anyway, that's neither here nor there, literally, the crap is all over my yard now; the moss which suffices for grass is a nice chalk-pink. Actually, none of that is true, I don't own any chalk and I didn't write a single paragraph last week. And it's a good thing too, because it did storm and it all would have just washed away.