For Nick,

my friend,

who has been very good to a lot of people.

Massive thanks to Kathy Nagel and Eric Wittmershaus for their invaluable editing, and thoughtful criticism; draft two wouldn't have been possible without you. Additional praise to Eric "Wonko" Oehler for his constant staunch support!

CHAPTER ONE

This is the chronicle of Saul. By no means can I claim that it is either accurate or objective, but neither are really the point. This isn't a dissertation, and it's not a complicated series of proofs describing an obscure aspect of mathematics. It's words on paper, that tell as much of my story as I can remember, from my own perspective. As always, there is pretension. I've tried to keep it to a reasonable level.

This is a story of Middle America. This is not a tale of the East Coast, with skyscrapers and immigrants and bustling city streets. Nor is it a story of rich, inbred Boston highfolk writhing over small jealousies, and sending their sons and daughters to elite preperatory schools. It's not about money, really, and it's definetely not about art.

This is also not a story of the West Coast. There is no Hollywood, no swaying palm trees, no avacados and no roaring surf. The temperature is either damned cold or uncomfortably hot. It's not about junkies.

Lord help me, it isn't about the South, either.

In this story, I remain trapped in America. Throughout the pages, you may notice the rest of the world knocking hard upon our doors, and, as always, America is deaf to the racket. As am I. It's a big country to get bottled up in, however, and a young man with a car can drive for a long time before he realizes that something might be missing.

I never quite get there. There were other things occupying my time, and my mind. Of my readers, I ask for nothing more than quiet attention.

Right. The story is a common one for me, and so I'll boil it down to the details that you, the reader, really want to know. The blonde was naked by now, having ripped off my shirt seconds after letting me do the same to hers. Buttons had flown. We had both been wearing dress shirts and jeans, and neither of us wanted the encumberance. Soon her luscious form was pinned beneath mine, and she was begging me to give her everything that was within my power to grant.

This isn't quite right, actually. Actually, none of this is true. There was no blonde, no dress shirts, no writhing. I just thought that if people were skimming through a large pile of printed material, that the first paragraph up there might be a good one for them to see. I'm imagining that it would catch the eyes of the cosmopolitan young men and women left hanging around the world with little to do.

In retrospect, though, I can see how it could be construed as both offensive and unecessary. I would actually change this whole bit in the second printing, but I suppose by the time the first printing is finished, there won't be any printing presses left with which to produce such an edition. The Happy Eaters will gladly see to that.

Now I've really gone and mucked it up, but some sort of internal framework is screaming something catchy at me about the importance of letting my first words linger for eternity. I can't change what I've written after it hits the page, because I'm mentally ill. I can't stop writing whatever diseased ramblings choose to spill out of me, because of the same framework. "You've got to fight for your right to write for your fight!" Thank you, muse of rhyme. Thank you, Beastie Boys. Be the Light.

Of all people, though, I really understand what it means to have an internal framework. As much as I'd often like to saw off a plank or two here and adjust a strut or two there, I really understand what happens when you take up carpentry in your own head: walls start falling down. The landlord shows up, and gets pissed, and takes the deposit. The zoning inspector in your brain decides it's time to condemn the whole place, and before you know it, you've emptied out your bank account to spend a week in Cancun so you can decide where to start rebuilding on the ruins.

At least that's what happens to me. Tried it once. Moral: no internal mental self-carpentry. It's bad.

Note to the reader:

You don't really care yet, though, because you don't really understand yet, because you CAN'T, yet. I'm not that transparent, because I can't remember how to be anymore.

I was a journalist once, and may be once again. But now, I'm a shaman, and a keeper of stories.

I suppose I really ought to start by telling you about the fireflies. That's more along the lines of what a proper beginning should be, I would think. So that's what I'll do.