Halvard Johnson
	Accomplished, If Quirky He can no longer run through prophets without music. The posters of lovely shapes painted between uphill fabrics the Senegalese hats, the Vietnamese ice sky empties, sweat slicked hands catch him as he falls. Who's around? says the bartender you were talking about. The left hand of God once ran toward Stalingrad. Afraid, I ran the other way, changing trains a hundred times.