Bad Bad Girl in Bad Bad Shanghai

- It is Sunday night, the moon is high and pale. Weeping willows rustle, their shadows playing hide and seek with mice sulking in bushes and rodents striking with canines. Somewhere, a black cat cries out, and shadows cast their ominous hijab on passing men. I huddle in my black coat, holding it close, eyes just slits. A solitary violinist stands in the corner with sheet music written by the Big Man. The moon whispers poetry written by the Big Man. And so it is, that this blog is being watched and halted and blocked by Big Boy. Excuse me as I slink back into a web of shrubs called proxy servers.