I’m up in a skyscraper that scrapes the ionosphere. It’s mostly under construction on the bottom of the tower but it’s all finished and full of people up top. There are escalators everywhere and I’m running down them. My Heely skate shoes come in handy as I round the corner and glide down one of the special wheelchair ramp escalators. It’s totally flat but it moves me faster than I can run. When I hit the bottom of the ramp I grab hold of a metal bar encircling the next escalator and I jump up through the opening that separates the pedestrian walkway from the pedestrian freeway. Now I’m flying. My feet tap every fiftieth step on the electric stairway, just enough to keep my momentum but the angle of descent is enough for me to nearly free-fall down dozens of floors.
Although I’m going fast, I know they are not far behind me, Yakuza, gokudō, but not bōryokudan–this group isn’t violent by nature. I think they just want to question me, why, I don’t know but I’m running anyway. It’s not that I mind answering questions, I just like to answer questions with all my fingers intact at the end of the conversation.
In almost no time at all, I’m nearing the underdeveloped part of the tower. The are no longer any escalators and I must take one of the large elevators they use to cart equipment. It also carries a lot of people on sometimes, like tonight, where countless tuxedo and gown clad citizens celebrate on the roof, gazing at the less distant stars, getting drunk off of the high altitude.
For a second, I worry that they may have someone stationed in the lift. Luckily, they had flown in and landed on the roof. They must not have had anyone come from the ground, yet. The elevator takes me all the way down to the basement level, my ears popping all the way. In the lowest level of the building, there are even more people than on the roof. They are getting ready for a Cirque performance of some kind.
I grab a seat, trying to be inconspicuous. The show starts and immediately I am unimpressed. They have giraffe unicycle magicians catching fine pieces of cloth, which are being projected out of thin air, but I can see a black gloved hand throwing them from behind an even blacker drapery. The contortionists are weak and the jugglers falter.

I couldn’t sleep well last night. I think it has something to do with the home made blackberry/cherry/grape wine.
I just wrote my first dead letter (a letter to a friend in case of my death). I was planning on writing several but then I thought, “Hey, why not take a bunch of videos. They will be more entertaining while making it easier for the recipients to claim legal holding over my assets.”
Now, I just have to do it.
The letter was shorter than I wanted–but what do you say in a letter you hope nobody will ever have to read.

There was this old church that had the bottom floor turned into a community center. There were dozens of floors above us that were still the original building. I was talking to this group of adolescent guys I didn’t know. They said they were graffiti artists. I saw one of them sparing with another and they said that was their thing. They all liked to spar but they all had their own styles. I said I’d like to try out my hand against one of them. They weren’t hitting each other hard–it was just playful whacking.

In the main room, a couple of them stood up and said they would challenge anyone with their Gung-Fu style. A slightly larger group stood up and posed in a horse stance with their fingers pointed out, “We will beat you with our Pointing Style.”

Another larger group leaped off the ground and hovered in unison, all in lotus position with nothing but their index fingers holding them off the ground. “Feather Touch will destroy you all!”.

The groups grew larger and more specialized and when everyone had set up for the fight, I realized I should get involved.

I came crashing through the ceiling with a mighty afro hair style–somewhat mangled from going through the ceiling. I looked like I put my finger in a light socket. “Wild Hair Style!”

Everyone began and somehow I managed to get through the mass unscathed.

An earthquake suddenly hit and I was the only one left on the bottom floor. Someone said falling through the ceiling was a good approach to death at this point because if you died outside you would have no chance at eternal life. We were somehow all evil but forgiven if having died in a church. I decided to go outside.

Hills shook and people lost balance but the quake subsided fairly quickly.

There’s much more but I can’t spend all day writing. I’ve got some errands to run. Maybe later I’ll finish up the story. Here are some reminder notes:

Police force, tapping phone lines. The mole. The secretary with a secret crush. Spearmint posing as peppermint but calling himself outright the “Kandy Kid”.