I’m a language junkie, a lingo jockey. I need language the way others need dollars or drugs, but mostly I need meaning, my life sentence w/o parole nor punctuation, just the same letters over and over forming the same words over and over, but with ever-changing meaning. The gift of words came upon me like a thunderbolt from heaven, and got stuck in my throat, lost in self-reflection. Pen in hand, I’m ready to slay demons and fellow travelers, heal the sick, change the world, and other assorted odd jobs. Heroes are hard to find in a world gone to heroin, short cuts and cheap thrills. No one wants to take a risk, tempt fate, stick it out just to get it whacked off. America is the last bastion of the belated hero, simultaneously reviled and celebrated. America creates the world for those too busy to do it for them selves. Space is money; Europe is just too expensive for its own good. They can’t afford to waste time in idle speculation. We can do your dreaming for you, design that prototype, and then contract out the final production.