with the rage of ages notbeat sits on his shaggy mare a scratch pad salesman in his hip pocket waiting for orders. a bodhisatva'd syrup of breath held from hoping the logout will equal true. and it's so odd how poor & sweet the beat of Mr.McGill becomes interwoven with the spin of action because he has no salesman to rely upon. the only thing in his pocket are the ancient transistors he stole from the carnival years ago. it was the only way.