This morning I woke up with deadweights on my feet and a faint recollection of a Kafkaesque blur. It's like the irradescent blue from late night infommercials. I open my eyes, rub the contact film from them, and squint transfixedly, filing away the trafficked coils of my cerebellum: Marxism, rejection, college plans, and reconstruction of my shambled state. Why keep a façade? I even mask the masking of my emotions involuntarily. If I had only (an infamous prologue to universal failures) fortified the vulnerability of my emotions. Kudos of Dionne Warwick, "I'll never fall in love again." Instead, I will retrogress to my sholarly ways and candy coated optimism. But, when I see sushi kits and learn it yourself japanese books on sale at Books A Million, how do I push you to the back of my mind? Enough woolgathering... Here I am, on the proverbial Plymouth Rock, ready to chart new territory in a matter of seven days. Monday, wiping the dust from my tennis shoes to hit the track; Tuesday, the Democratic Primary (2 cents for John Kerry...so I'm under age); Wednesday, beta endorphin high at Art Council; Thursday, touring the State newspaper headquarters; Friday, self-explanatory; Saturday and Sunday, celebrating two birthdays. Am I a deadpan?