Phantasms I’m a mousy mister, a bookish bloke. My apple is crab; my cherry is choke. My income is fixed; my budget is broke. My dreams are fantastic, escapist, baroque: tiddlywink towers that squop to the sky, jacks in tall stacks, twenty knucklebones high, checkers that leap, model airplanes that fly, chess pieces polished with midnight-blue dye – a game-player’s paradise! Pinball! Pachinko! Graphics that glisten and pop! Lights a-blink-o as bright as the feathers of fifty flamingos! Sounds that go BLAST-O and BLAM-O and BINGO! … I beg your pardon. I long for that. I cook my supper. I pet my cat.