Desperate measure

Desperate measure. My therapist says ...  My ex-girlfriend says, writes ...

I need to post something here. I've haven't posted for ages. The Way of the Cross, the way of the word. What would Warburg think of that as a remark? Nothing, probably? Something, perhaps.

What can I post? Anything? Down to the wall. Another Oompah Loompah dog?  Hardly.

Here is my street, Lupus, in Google Maps. Count five (houses) from the left and I'm somewhere down there, beneath two layers of probably still sleeping bodies, looking, on a beautiful April morning, at the trees in the school-yard opposite, one of which you just make out. Damn, it doesn't work! Desperate measure, to be continued.