I am a communist. I always get Big Girl Trouble thrown at me, sometimes violently, but I cannot live in the world of the suits, I tried doing that at the Fed, and I am here to tell you that at 7:45am, the elevators were heavy with the most morose, hung over, lay it on with a trowel, Homo sapiens who have lost their reason to the stones of Rome. Shallow in their pious mysteries, they are predictable. We are never predictable, never give them a stationary target, or a moving one for that matter. Art will dance dangerously for its life or for yours. Those stones of Rome are howling for your face, some by less than inches. The suits live on the gnawing of our bones. You cannot distain your house, your houses, there are no deeds of mercy in the midnight sleeps. Half of Troy was was burned in the sudden hell.