another short ------------ I'm a pundit of orchestral table scraps the arbitrary tremors of afterthought in the second balcony, forty-second row nose bleeding, I occupy comfortably a proud oak chair. Blacklisted above muffled violin palpitations and insipid pulls of rhythmic murmur I begin to fold my concert program seven times. The Woodwinds dispatch a hum-drum of empty spectacle dog fighting the hollow sorties of paper airplanes raining down from the second balcony, forty-second row. Launched with the technology of my velcro shoe. The Strings respond one octave lower, pitched in stealth formation. Forcing a drop zone to dissident sound gardens of predatory hummingbirds.