A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in a prism of sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds along with schematic petals and stems, anywhere the free-lance mammoth goes after he drops a thread. 
Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person a free-lancer can be... this could look like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you living in this cesspool?