At 5:45, p.m., as the sun was hovering over the hill, I heard a voice hissing at me, in this deep and profundo voice – the note of E, I think – and I looked around, and nothing was there but this yellow pansy, catching the last rays of the afternoon, and I could not believe his mellifluous James Earl Jones voice, and  he showed his face to me, and I was stunned by his radiance, and he bellowed his song:

“Hey! I am here. I am alive! Now, now, now, now!
Don’t you get it? Send a letter to the prophets of fear and doom, take it down for me, word for word.

Send an e-mail. Write a text message. Post it on your blog. My manifesto.

Here goes: You may think me silly, and you may laugh at me,

or dismiss me, or roll your eyes. But I will not give you money,

or sell you pieces of my soul, or trade my peace of mind for greed and false promises,

or join in your chorus and drink the blood of the fearful and the innocent.

Here, at this moment, I am filled with magic, drunk on power, the brightest and most

beautiful and powerful thing in the world. And one day, the God Of Love will

sail down here on his chariot, trailing his sparkling angels, and blue-eyed cherubim,

and contrails of red and green and blue and yellow comet dust, and clouds

filled with fairies and prophets,

and he will roast your asses, and sting you cheeks,

and turn you to burnt toast.

Because he warned you, he told you that the world was filled with love,

and you filled it instead with money and lies and anger and fear.

Look at me. I’m here. I’m here! Now, now, now, now, now.”

bcc: The Sun. Yo, thanks.”