There is a cellist with bad knees, an outpost of literate marsupials, a ghost-train full of twitching corpses, an assemblage of mugshot cowboys waiting for the chorus, and maybe one lonely guy on the island of St. Kilda left behind during the Great Evacuation and has inexplicably got a wireless signal, thanks to a beam ricocheting off a piece of passing space debris. Yes, these are the people reading this author's paranoid mental exposee.
Is there anybody else? Yes? I know you are out there in the States, the Netherlands, Germany, France, the UK, and Russia. A whole crowd from China one day obviously stumbled across my twitching, typing cadaver by accident and swiftly moved on. So who are you? Leave a little hello, hi y'all, guten tag, bonjour, or whatever. And then maybe I can get you to persuade your friends to drop by as well and we can have a global literary whammy!
Almost forgot - and who was the one person from Serbia who dropped by? I saw Djokovic during the first week of Wimbledon and I did megaphone a soundtrack of my blog address at him, but I'm sure it wasn't him... most likely... almost certainly...
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