I watch a motorcade of mannequins masquerading as men. They move in a long line of Lincoln Continentals under the shimmer of a morning's first light. Mandarins, they are. Mandarins of the day. Mandarins of the night. Mandarins of government offices in a Bauhaus relief of grey and concrete. I know of these false men. Their waxy skin. Their rubbery hearts. Their veins frozen with black ice. I, too, feel cold in this Bauhaus tower as I spy the steady procession of horrible them moving closer. My fingers lose their touch. My heart beats slowly. The fire in my belly burns low. How do I escape these government men. A flight to Mexico? A walk through a Manitoba plain? There: a last pay cheque I leave behind in haste. I touch my skin; it feels human. I feel my pulse; it beats. My blood, I know, bleeds warm and red. Alas, a desperate salvation taken in a blog. A 200th post. I live to write again.