Hope. Prayers, whatever form they may take. Life's great ups and downs.The following will make its way into Bali Wave Ghost and it is an unwanted addition. I wrote the following because loved ones were in very dark situations. Francesca, like a slow melody on an accordion “A body's like a musical instrument,full of air and making soundwaves," Will Sun once told me and now, that idea's no longer hippydippy new age surferspeak pablum. His words are circling deep within me as I look at my love. My love makes not a sound in this silent, frightening hospital room. Why is my love there with a tube in her throat? Why are her eyes closed? I had walked in and rushed to her, selfishly tried to hold her, tried to feel her heartbeat against mine; she was sedated and motionless because of medicine and delicate apparatus. Her faint heartbeat was buried beneath bandages. My love can sing out show tunes, my love can sing jazz. She loves rock and she can samba. My love can go to Roma and suddenly jump into the middle of the circle surrounding a street musician and start singing My Way. She can sing that song so loud and with so much soul that the boys on motorbikes stop and the suspicious grandmothers move closer to their curtains in their darkened rooms: my love's voice makes them forget their fear.They smile. Yesterday, for a moment, my love was an accordion played by two forces. One force that held her was the hand of Fate, the other hand was a wall, a big brick fist. A terrible note was struck and a big sudden punch of speed, gravity, and a snapped steering column hit her windpipe, broke her neck. Her bike's round mirror became the brief tinkle of deathly chimes. Then the long silence, the silence that continues now. The silence has lasted days. I have heard nothing from her. I have not heard the roosters, I have not heard the gamelan players practice, I have not heard the voices on my cell phone. I have not heard my food. And then... She told me, in a whispered voice, that she is OK. My love told me she wants to sing again.