for the drummer
Your shirt was red, and redly youremoved yourself againsta background redding(in the velvetiest way)and were to—
unseeingas I amcould still fillpages upon pagesif I only didn't—
but you, alas, undone,by redness overswum, anddimly, swinging, flailing, float away
― 'The Road'(a hundred less-than signs)'Taken' (bernard snowy), Sunday, 5 December 2010 15:43 (thirteen years ago) link
homage to eliot (older poem, newly found)
April wasscarcely a month at all; eatingonce a day at most, I'd stayawake for hours inside your room, your bedbeside the box of the wooden matches, lighting,relighting. Outside,the rain unfurled a flag,whispering otherances, and in the afternoonrose from the pavement cloying tendrilsabout my legs. Crossing and uncrossingthe street, I kept my openeyes fixed on the ground before me.Not that I expectedsalvationwould spring from there, but onlywhere else was there to look?
― unemployed aerosmith fans I have shoved (bernard snowy), Friday, 10 December 2010 03:11 (thirteen years ago) link
line 5 should read "beside the box of wooden matches, lighting"fuckin ruined the whole thing :(
― unemployed aerosmith fans I have shoved (bernard snowy), Friday, 10 December 2010 03:12 (thirteen years ago) link
wrote a short poem/prayer to my books b4 going to sleep, I dunno.
------------------------
when I risetomorrow, be not asa dead letter unto me,but rather stir beneathmy hand, and rise,and make me restitutionand return forall that have lostin sleep
― unemployed aerosmith fans I have shoved (bernard snowy), Monday, 13 December 2010 06:30 (thirteen years ago) link
we spoke at length,smoking,outside,our cigarettes—at length, andat a distance,
ME:a coldreliable machine,dispensing stones,stories, jokes atwhich no one elselaughs much,promises of
(the smoke that curled itself into our hairs)
YOU:unmaking mewith skillful jibes,arousing in mehopes of futurefurther such delights,forcing meto recognize the essentialpointlessness of
(the words hung heavy from the cabled air)
ME:nodding, affirming,deferring (to)thy pleasure
― unemployed aerosmith fans I have shoved (bernard snowy), Thursday, 16 December 2010 07:56 (thirteen years ago) link
There did I behold a splendidclamoring of colors, flowersrung, and like a church's bellranged far along the hills.
― Egyptian Raps Crew (bernard snowy), Tuesday, 21 December 2010 16:33 (thirteen years ago) link
fuck those last few I posted were emo, sorry y'all
― Egyptian Raps Crew (bernard snowy), Tuesday, 21 December 2010 16:35 (thirteen years ago) link
caught dreaming of adeathbed camera pullbackshielding eyes, revealinglines of force that drove meever onwards, seeking something,into sunspot smudgeson the surface of the day,what could I call outfrom that caverned cave but:
"while I hold together still,drive sharpened stakesinto my limbs, andmake of me a child'spuppety plaything,endless dancing,likely building —"less poetically, of course
― Egyptian Raps Crew (bernard snowy), Friday, 31 December 2010 15:23 (thirteen years ago) link
cigarette paper
your uncreased increasingflatness' unfolding fillingfields and planesso thin, so white,so smooth, like perfectlegs, like perfectlegs of perfect furniturethat sits unboughtin warehouses somewhere;
like tubes syringing fluids in and outof bodies in their unfamiliar bedsthat groan and mutter through a dreamless sleep;
and all this loveliness of blanknesshanging, soon to be consumed,suspended by the strip of gumI fumblingly feel for in the dark
― bernard snowy, Friday, 14 January 2011 12:34 (thirteen years ago) link
rly into 'eroticizing' things lately, probably b/c i'm 'not getting any'. (see also: http://givefascistshell.wordpress.com/2011/01/13/errata/ )
― bernard snowy, Friday, 14 January 2011 12:54 (thirteen years ago) link
marlettewhy the hell are my smokes crushed in hereand where the hell is lonnieit is five past nine already todaymarlette
― progressive cuts (Tracer Hand), Friday, 14 January 2011 12:57 (thirteen years ago) link
That's really, really good bernard. 'Somewhere' and 'syringing' don't work for me though - 'somewhere' because it sounds like a tailing off whereas your narrator's actually ultrafocused; and 'syringing' because it's not what the tubes do, I don't think?
I'm not sure about the whole 'tubes syringing fluids' image, actually - it's wet (though not messy) where your poem is immaculate and dry.
― Ismael Klata, Friday, 14 January 2011 13:51 (thirteen years ago) link
Yeah sorry aboutLeaving so earlyI'd like to be able to sayI had something on the next dayBut to be honestIt was a pretty boring partyThe next day I basically just sat on my arseMoped a bitThought about that guy you gave me those old tapes byThe transcendental meditation guyWith the creepy beardLike I thought I would do that maybeListen to the tapes and beYou knowBE
― plax (ico), Friday, 14 January 2011 13:59 (thirteen years ago) link
xp yeah I wasn't sure abt that part — the transition (in my head, not on paper) was sort of, moving from flat things to cylindrical things (table leg, syringe) a la paper becoming cigarette; hospital setting wasn't too much of a stretch b/c SMOKING IS BAD AND U WILL DIE or whatever but then I tried to also turn it into a big double-entendre ("unfamiliar beds", fluids in & out etc), somehow ended up with tubes instead of syringes...
I like yr point about wet/dry tho — maybe need to hold the wetness back so when I get to the gum at the end it sticks (heh) out more? will reflect on this
tracer: I don't totally understand but I like
― bernard snowy, Friday, 14 January 2011 14:05 (thirteen years ago) link
btw philologists of the future: while going thru papers, found a missing fragment of
AUTO-BIO-DRAMA-GRAPHICAL SHORT POEM OF LOSS:We found we had become two magnetsit was easier to hold apart;two faces of a canyon, forever staring at each otheracross the river,and the air where the river used to be.Where we used to touch, there wasneither you nor me, butsomething that would become us both.
We found we had become two magnetsit was easier to hold apart;
two faces of a canyon, forever staring at each otheracross the river,and the air where the river used to be.
Where we used to touch, there wasneither you nor me, butsomething that would become us both.
― bernard snowy, Sunday, 16 January 2011 18:50 (thirteen years ago) link
(think i like it better without those lines but those lines are something too)
― bernard snowy, Sunday, 16 January 2011 18:56 (thirteen years ago) link
three newish ones, kinda rough, variations on old themes and new ones; think the second is probably the best except that the ending is weak... whereas the third is kinda meh but I'm pretty proud of the last couplet
#1What emerges from me inlong sounding-lines of words intonedis perhaps only the recordof a lost life's history;
some singular, eccentric sequenceof confusion, understanding missed,mistake and momentary lapsethat constitutes a world, trailinglong like string from distant kite.
#2 ("Conceptual Mummies"):Somewhere, in the back of my mind,our dry limbs twined round each otherwaiting to be engulfed in flame.Me in your bed one afternoonwhile my clothes dried, trying to feel warm,listening to the storm, the lightningflashing up and dying down again.
So anyway, one day the lightning struckand burned up all the trees, you told methat you felt alone, somewhere behind the world,no way to grasp a single living thing — I thinkthat you were pretty stoned, but anyway,it sounded right to me.
#3birds of preylow light andmotionless tra(i)nsfixed likestuffed with emptiness
to glorify the unseen currents,trace strange circles in the air —the closest thing to angels earth can bear
― proso_Opopoeia (bernard snowy), Tuesday, 1 February 2011 00:13 (thirteen years ago) link
even lewis jaggleur doesn't read these things anymore :'(
― proso_Opopoeia (bernard snowy), Thursday, 3 February 2011 13:33 (thirteen years ago) link
weird combination of emotion, night-terror, beautiful strangers working service-sector jobs, being woken up by my cat — not quite sure I pulled it off but oh well
visitor
the pale tiptoeing lines ofyou,your bodygliding into viewin silence, lit withghostly hues,
in ghastly fashiongreeting me,with downcast eye,a word, or two,or wordless cry,and secret weightsso lightly pressedto bring the tightnessto my chest,your faceexpectant, stillawaiting my
unutterable reply
― on some outer space shit (bernard snowy), Thursday, 17 February 2011 18:50 (thirteen years ago) link
for fathers
the mirrors were alignedand caught the sunlike two hands clasping fire;feet, descending fromthe summit, break into a run,make haste to bring the good newsto the town wheresomeday praises will be sungin honor of a heart still piningfor its bed of needles, cedar shingles,dry debris, and everything that kindleshope — reflected in my eyes,the eyes betray me,rays of light refusing to obey me:even with my back turned to the slope,I still can see your fate unwind behind me.
― on some outer space shit (bernard snowy), Friday, 18 February 2011 13:26 (thirteen years ago) link
[think Prometheus]
― on some outer space shit (bernard snowy), Friday, 18 February 2011 13:38 (thirteen years ago) link
one last one:
the texts were woundand woven into me —which was not bad,on balance, though it leadat times to situations of regret:a single strandwhen called by nameor tickled by a playful finger(as in the living room,you lean and linger...)inexorably set in motionapparatuses unfolding,coiled springs releasing and returning,razor wire unspooling from meforming in a pile on the floor,bloodying our faces, and encasinghouse in cables,following and lead,escaping us and skippingdown the street,in rhythm,criss-crossinglike railroad tracks,and with them
― on some outer space shit (bernard snowy), Friday, 18 February 2011 13:45 (thirteen years ago) link
a couple humble image-poems (rather than confused emotional diary-poems) of recent vintage that I am more-or-less happy with:
Land of the Dead:As the distantgun shot echoesdied away, the streetwisesenatorpeeked round the cornerof the pillar where she’d sheltered,seeing nothing movingthought of calling out for help,but then thought better, drew the pistolfrom the ankle holster, and descendedsteps with careful steps,around her seeingless and lessthe silence and the emptiness,the ruined road down to the railwaystation, and abandoningthe city to its holy mess.
untitled (#53):The blues are something real,I think; I’ve neverfelt them, but can sometimesglimpsedeep lakes of indigo,electric neon, streaks of skybehind the screen of vision,pictures shotthrough openingsadmitting passage tothe other side, and theideas strangelyangling, like arrows, for my hide.
― save a bike, ride a hipster (bernard snowy), Monday, 7 March 2011 15:58 (thirteen years ago) link
... and, okay, one confused emo diary-poem:
(de)termination:I am impossible,a woman cut in twobefore a crowd that hardly careswhether I am smoke and mirrors,flesh and blood, a vision from abovethat barely keeps togetherin the open air, or else whatever…
For there is nothing but air between meand the other feet, supposedto stand for mine, butdistant as the starsabove, preceding me,awaiting my approach, then swiftlyspringing into being;like the circle traced in sand,a better angle on our nature.
In the darkness, twitching,stretching out my nervous tanglethrough the walls, I make no contactwith the lifeless limbs that dangleon the other side, and I am stilldivided from myself,reflecting on my axis,when the flashing tooth adroitly passesthrough the trick box, and the phony locks:illusions that I saw throughto the bitter end, regardless.
― save a bike, ride a hipster (bernard snowy), Monday, 7 March 2011 16:14 (thirteen years ago) link
I wrote something about letters.
I slightly regret the title but couldn't yet think of a better one, not wanting to call it 'we could send letters' and always having liked the REM record a lot.
http://reelingatall.wordpress.com/2011/03/09/dead-letter-office/
― the pinefox, Wednesday, 9 March 2011 13:21 (thirteen years ago) link
But the other, less self- evident reason for not writing more letters is – would anyone want to receive them? Wouldn’t they think I was odd, writing them a letter? It’s as though the contract agreeing that we do this has broken down – not because we agreed not to do it, just because it’s fallen out of use, we’ve walked away and forgotten it. The practice of letter-writing has never been formally and deliberately abandoned; just idly let go.
coincidentally, I am just now writing a letter to a friend studying abroad! (and also feeling weirdly self-conscious about the whole thing because, holy shit, when was the last time I wrote a letter? maybe home from summer camp to my family as a teenager?)
but yeah, she has specifically asked ppl to write her letters — can't imagine writing to someone unannounced, out of the blue; it would just feel... I dunno, almost intrusive! like, look, here is this thing, it shows up at your house unexpectedly, it represents an amount of time that someone has spent THINKING ABOUT YOU, and an investment of effort you will now have to make to read the damn thing... I guess there are some close friends I could get away with doing this to, but suspect most people would just be annoyed!
PS (heh) I told her about the morrissey thing, too, which I found p.funny in a "statements very much in character" way
― save a tree, write a twitter (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 9 March 2011 15:11 (thirteen years ago) link
Mr Snowy, thanks for reading my piece and your interesting response. I'm glad that it struck a chord with your current experience. I find it interesting to hear of someone requesting letters - it doesn't happen so often. I agree that writing someone a letter would seem odd to many recipients now. But maybe the experience of writing to your friend now will reawaken some good things about letter writing?
― the pinefox, Thursday, 10 March 2011 14:50 (thirteen years ago) link
dude let's exchange letters(ilx penpal club??)
― bernard snowy, Thursday, 10 March 2011 20:30 (thirteen years ago) link
it's a good idea
― the pinefox, Friday, 11 March 2011 08:39 (thirteen years ago) link
poem written while walking to and from the post office to mail the aforementioned letter — seven stanzas, one for every mile:
Peripathos(for Durham, City of Medicine
I.
With wanderlust,painpoeming and springinside my heels,along the little lakes,the fields of mudand swimming cigarette butts,I retreated
with the sun pursuing, keepingcongress with my shadow,who is taller than I am,a little lankier, and darkerin his attitude, his garband his demeanor — so I think offunny things to say, and clever observationsto parade before the other,and we have a conversation.
He responds when promptedbut his figure is unchanging:impassive, ever-patient, waitingfor a sign or something —until suddenly, the light is stolenfrom our thoughts by cloudsor tops of trees, the day grows dimand I alone, again, lose sight of him.
(… and still my poemwants another part, demands it of meas does life, when setting meunder the knife, it robs me of my sensesbut insists that I, by wit orwill, somehow, survive…)
II.
Now, look! Seefrom how far the hospitalis visible; how evenin a clearing miles away,it rises high above the woods;the way the tower shoots upthrough the gloomy seething living writhingdying mass its crystal needleburns and strives to keep at bay.
But purity, though soothing,can be dangerous: it wounds the sky,offends the eye of God and Man alike,and is consigned to slow decay,at best remaining as a ruinand reminder of the day —of this day, when the way was longand harder than I’d thought;
without a sens or Seinto give me hope, I turnedthings over in my head,regarding myself, foundthat I was broken down. And stillI could not trace the problemto a single source or cause,but only knewthat I had fallen.
― hipsters be comin' to the hipster-hop store (bernard snowy), Monday, 14 March 2011 16:50 (thirteen years ago) link
whoops, I dropped an italicized parenthesis way back therelemme just:)okay that's better
― hipsters be comin' to the hipster-hop store (bernard snowy), Monday, 14 March 2011 16:51 (thirteen years ago) link
I'm very impressed.
Looking at
"the way the tower shoots upthrough the gloomy seething living writhingdying mass its crystal needleburns and strives to keep at bay."
I thought for a moment you had abandoned complete syntax, but you had not.
The idea of writing all that in your head is somewhat staggering. Then again, 7 miles is a lot of walking.
― the pinefox, Monday, 14 March 2011 19:31 (thirteen years ago) link
thanks!walk woulda been significantly shorter but I tried to take a shortcut and went far out of my way — hadn't walked to the post office before, probably won't often, but it's nice to know that I can. (and I did write down some stuff at the post office before I came back, so it's not like it was all mentalism.)
― SBlendor in the grass (bernard snowy), Monday, 14 March 2011 21:26 (thirteen years ago) link
Frustrated and relatively uninformed reflections on the political situation:http://reelingatall.wordpress.com/2011/03/21/cheaper-than-bombs/
― the pinefox, Monday, 21 March 2011 14:09 (thirteen years ago) link
that's impressively written.
― j., Monday, 21 March 2011 15:02 (thirteen years ago) link
That is nice of you to say.
― the pinefox, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 00:40 (thirteen years ago) link
yesterday I got really blue and sat down and wrote an angry long-ass poem that I think has temporarily cured me of the need to write poetry, like pulling a bad tooth — poem wasn't bad either, I'll post it here in a sec
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:06 (thirteen years ago) link
where I’m at
A patchwork nest of colorsI have built myself down on the floor fromblankets beanbags pillowspapers clothing books guitarsfor crawling into on those nightsthe mattress grows into a mountainthat is difficult to summit.
My head, kept covered mostlyby one scrap of cloth or other,can be seen at times to peek outand regard the window sliverthat I keep the blinds suspended over—not so much for looking outas letting lightness enterand the heavy clouds escape(and also checking on the weather).Still, the view is nice enough:the foreground but a singleforking branch, set off againstthe sprays of purple dogwood,yellow something, birds andgrey uncolored sky;the wind keeps every limb in motion,more industrious than I.
But what the trees restore to methe animals steal back again:the anguish in the voice ofcats demanding to be fedcan make me miserable, frankly—I don’t know why, but somehowthey seem qualified to judge me,in a way that I withhold from others,so-called friends or former lovers,therapists and doctors,even closest family members.They sing to me of sadnessthat we both know I can remedy,and every second that I tarryis another strike against me.
But don’t I do the same?Begrudging people their indifference,the slowness of their humorsand the deafness of their consciences?Not that I want to forge a swordof sadness, and condemn the world;nor do you owe me anythingwho, even for an instant,pull apart these pagesto decipher what is written.Life sometimes has been friendly to me;still there is a tendencyfor everything to crumblein the presence of another.
I remember crouching,with the light on, underneath a quilt,and watching how its surface shimmeredlike a many-colored aspic,lime and salmon in suspension,and my tearful gales of laughing.(I had tidied up my roomand took a couple hits of acidfrom a summer long beforeI found forgotten in a folder.)I went downstairsto smoke a cigaretteand met my father,who looked older,frail and birdlike,in the glow of his computer.
He spoke to me with wordsI could not understand,and read a storyof a football playerwho had died the day before when hewas chasing down a pickup truckand jumped into the bed, but thenwas thrown and landed on his head.
I did not knowwhat I should say;but somehow feltI could relate.
That life must be a hellish thingI realized early on, and dealt withmore or less alone—as must, I figured, everyone.So when I reached my hand outI had hoped to find more sympathy,had hoped to find more comfort,and had hoped to make less enemies.I hoped the truck would slow down,and the driver spare a moment;but it didn’t, so I leapt,and perhaps I missed the targetand must now stop wasting wordsand forever soak in silence.
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:11 (thirteen years ago) link
You are extraordinarily productive!
I will try to make time to read your poem, properly.
― the pinefox, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:29 (thirteen years ago) link
But the specific function of libraries is not the only issue. There is also the sense that public places are being taken away; that in withdrawing provision for publicly owned spaces, the state is damaging the social fabric in which we live. I think that’s true.
I have similar feelings re: the current wave of cuts to public education, especially at the university level, which is one of the few things our country actually does well — it just seems absurd to me, in the face of an economic crisis (that is just as much a cultural crisis), to respond by hamstringing the institutions that serve young people who have very little to do with the current mess, but whose education may be a crucial means of avoiding the next one.
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:32 (thirteen years ago) link
xp haha, I've sort of forced myself to be productive lately... basically relying on it to pull me out of a bleak and painful depression. but it hasn't, so fuck it, time for a little break. maybe find a job or something, who knows?
― bernard snowy, Tuesday, 22 March 2011 11:35 (thirteen years ago) link
just a bit of fun this, fnarr fnarr:
lol
I have heard itsaid before, truefaith comes inthe earhole only.(In a messy bitof theological baloney,this is simultaneouslytaken as explanatoryof man’s place before the pastorand the subtler mechanicsof immaculate conception—not to mention, the creation.)Then again, Pascal said Kneel,and you will understand;but forgive me if I’m rather eagererto try my hand.
― bernard snowy, Friday, 25 March 2011 23:25 (thirteen years ago) link
been really into The Dream Songs lately, but I eventually had to stop reading because the pain and sadness were overwhelming me... but not before bidding a fond farewell to the unwell man and his book:
last fall poem(for John Berryman)
you do not sacrifice yourselfin vain, none of us do, a lateseptember rain shadesimperceptiblyinto the autumn
and at bottom, hell fixed onthem frozen fromthe first day of creation;
but what paradise there isis only in the lying waiting
― bernard snowy, Friday, 15 April 2011 13:01 (thirteen years ago) link
simple love songs
I saw her stood therelong and lonelyas a french horn note
that sounded in somesentimental symphony,selling outthe concert halls of life
before an audiencealready growing restlesswith this prettinessrelentlessly advancing on them
minute after minute;with the terrible acoustics;with the insecure conductor,his flamboyant mannerisms,and the thoughtless youthful couplewho had brought their screaming child…
in spite of which, she hardly smiledwhen asked“Why don’t wedo it in the aisle?”
― bernard snowy, Monday, 2 May 2011 11:04 (thirteen years ago) link
I am still writing lots of poems. this one is from a few months ago and I am quite proud of it:
————
people who live in glass housesare letting them go all to seed,wisely allowing the ivyto grow up and over and hopefullycover them totally(chimneys excepted)pruning back onlythose vines that entangle the downspouts,that threaten the gunholesand air intake vents.
people who live in glass houseshave stopped getting stoned,but still they grow paranoid, oftenthe feeling of somebody watching,of being sealed up in a coffin,steals on them softly and awfully,they pause in the kitchen,stare into the distance,and stir at their coffee.
people who live in glass housesjar their own jams, preserves that remainin a room in the basement—and from an adjacent hillside,on a stormy night sometimes,one sees through the floor,dramatically lit from behind under thunder,sprawled out in rowslike an army of pottery soldiers,the syrupy fruits of their labors.
and people who live in glass houses keep lamps litwell after transacting their day’s worth of business;for people who live in glass houses aloneknow that sound is to wateras ghost is to window
― bernard snowy, Wednesday, 27 July 2011 12:03 (twelve years ago) link
(not that anyone cares but I've) been woodshedding poetry hard lately — scribbling down lots of ideas + not posting things on my blawg until I've gotten them to a point I'm happy with; find enclosed my most recent effort:
THE NEW LAWthe new law was friendly,wearing the face and perfumeof an orchard of apples in bloom,brushing his fingersinside of your wristthe new law had a nose, made a noiselike whatever the noiseof your favorite animal is,its muzzle’s impression,and sloppily kissedunder the new law, we prospered:houses, like haikus,appearing where nothing was,holding back shadowand drawing the curtainsplayfully, certainly, onwardwe picked up the trashcansand emptied them (inwardly)setting to work on the citieswe bore as a burden—still something went missing,a phone, or a friend, or a word,a veil dropped between us and meaning—of course, the taps and blendersscreens and speakerscouches ceilings wallswe still could see,but saw obscurely,through a fog and failing lightwhen language dies, it leaves a vacuumother tongues rush in to fill;so that no word is lost for long(by ‘word’ I mean not meaningbut articulated feeling)
the new law was friendly,wearing the face and perfumeof an orchard of apples in bloom,brushing his fingersinside of your wrist
the new law had a nose, made a noiselike whatever the noiseof your favorite animal is,its muzzle’s impression,and sloppily kissed
under the new law, we prospered:houses, like haikus,appearing where nothing was,holding back shadowand drawing the curtains
playfully, certainly, onwardwe picked up the trashcansand emptied them (inwardly)setting to work on the citieswe bore as a burden—still something went missing,a phone, or a friend, or a word,a veil dropped between us and meaning—
of course, the taps and blendersscreens and speakerscouches ceilings wallswe still could see,but saw obscurely,through a fog and failing light
when language dies, it leaves a vacuumother tongues rush in to fill;so that no word is lost for long
(by ‘word’ I mean not meaningbut articulated feeling)
― swaguirre, the wrath of basedgod (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 17 August 2011 13:14 (twelve years ago) link
This sustains beautifully right up until it hits a bump in the final two lines. There is probably a way to articulate that last thought that is a bit less jarring within the context of what came before. Otherwise, outstanding poem!
― Aimless, Wednesday, 17 August 2011 15:56 (twelve years ago) link
thanks! funny you should mention the ending, which I was also conflicted about—lately, I've been reading Barbara Herrnstein-Smith's wonderful Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End, and trying to approach my own poetry with some of her insights in mind... I agree with you about the jarringness of this particular case, though.
― swaguirre, the wrath of basedgod (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 17 August 2011 16:24 (twelve years ago) link
My guess is that you just need to let the idea simmer a bit longer; try out several or a dozen new verbal approaches to it; daydream on it. The nubbin of an image will come along that buttons it up nice and tight for you. Patience will be rewarded.
― Aimless, Wednesday, 17 August 2011 17:17 (twelve years ago) link