I've been told blaug's looking all khadilike. Kaimra is dusty. Ipaud is dead. Cellphoun is bloated and puffy and hanging on through sheer obstinacy. Most of the instruments I own, mechanical or electronic, will someday rise up and attack me when I'm asleep. It's bound to happen. Neuroses that are championship winners almost, like stupid disturbing dreams, like sudden convictions about someone outside my room at three in the morning, like telling the mother she is to blame for suggesting it must be a bad stomach.