Little Hum.

Here is how to know from whence the hum originates:

Leash up the dog. Take AMR, who knows for sure what kind of crazy you're carrying now, with you. Walk your walking party seven blocks humwards, ever surer that you're right, that this is the universe socking you one straight in the mouth. Be right. Stand in the shadow of the highrise private dorm, certain source of the hum. Listen to the hum. Demand of AMR that she tell you you're not crazy, that she say the hum is the hum.

But ah, friends and fans of wandering the stage, here's the rub: so you find the hum. So you get the hum peer-reviewed. So the hum is the hum. So the source is identified; is, if you will, sourced. Then the fuck what? Here: I know: call the hum. Call it on the phone. You've already done it once this week, drawn a deeply stoned young man on the other end of the phone: there's a hum, you say. Oh, man, what? he says. The hum hums on. This time on the other end of the phone is Ashley, ever eager to help, but just as with the marijuanaed gentleman earlier in the week, Ashley has no idea of what you speak, has not heard the hum, even though not hearing the hum would be much akin to not hearing a squadron of horse-drawn Sikorskys land on the roof. The hum, you say. I'll check on it, she says.

Sometimes you get very quiet inside the house just to make sure you can still hear the hum. This is what kind of crazy we're cashing here. The hum. The hum. What now?