ok, I'm starting at the beginning, will probably go a few at a time
Just want to say you write beautifully, "ISLE/future holdings" was a great read, and a very visual prose piece, also liked your references to time, the feel of the calm after the storm, the breaking of the new day
I also really liked the one about the girl/father and paper planes
the final verses:
Folded by shaking hands
Into yet another paper airplane
Shy and slight
Made in the image of its creator
It flew as predicted.
KLEENEX & BUCKSHOT/midnight oil -- another good read
it was very acid, sarcastic
the games of love...
these parts are the ones I liked the most
And the city at night...
One doesn’t look for the moon.
Your stars are made of neon glass.
Fluorescent lights point north.
To be homeward bound
Costs $2.50 a mile,
And to fall in love can cost you
Fifty
Dollars
An hour.
For most people it’s a fair deal.
[...]
In love the pen and the sword
Are equals.
And that kills me.
And for that she dies.
For the fact that I still bleed
She dies.
[...]
The blood is at my feet.
The neon flickers a dull red...
And apology is the only weapon with which
I can aim.
Back me up if I end up firing blanks.
however while it won't surprise a SOUL, it must be known that I have never had a poem 5 or 6 lines long. It's like giving me this little box to live in. I tend to punch out of such boxes.
And, in just a little bit, the last poem shall be edited to remove 80% of the so's from said message/prose/pome/missive.
blah. hope you're happy ya tyrant.
and you're ass kickin's are now up to 6.
they are SO up to 6.
but I'll see what I can and cannot do under the smaller roof and in the confines of actual structure. You all know that, in general, my mottos is FUCK STRUCTURE, though there really is a lot of structure to my stuff it is SO FREE. LOL.
see you sooooooooooon.
seta
P.S. I really don't think I abuse the word free, now that I ponder it... but we'll do as asked...
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Some people have to have the sultry evenings Cocktails in the blue, red and grey But I like every minute of the day.
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Some people have to have the sultry evenings Cocktails in the blue, red and grey But I like every minute of the day.
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
if your PARTICULAR box wasn't so stretched and overused <COUGH AHEM COUGH> I'd be able to find my way around... let alone fight my way out...
wait... are these my car keys?
LOL!!!!!
master sultry... she's a machine. but one with no timing and one that takes a few days to return a sling or two hee hee.
her daughter kicks her ass on a regular basis. which is as it should be, of course.
allll talk voice box on the rocks squawkin bout her socks and various locks upon her pants. Shock upon shock when she throws the swing and I begin to move again; her world tilts sideways and suddenly the carpet feels so soothing and would you just look at the frescoes in the ceiling who put those there she wonders when like any good gentleman I offer my hand and help her up only to put her on her ass again.
LOL consider that prognostication of the first order. :D:D:D:D
with a great deal of love and movement
the set aside tooooooooooo
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
now where was that poetry thread around here? it was here a minute ago.. all soft and somber and having fun taking itself so damn seriously and being all pretentious and snooty...
it must be around here somewhere.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 30 Miles, Light Speed, and a Peach
The peach solidified sweet and dripping
oh so sailing on this summer wind
the eyes-closed-flavor the sin the acidic sugar again
the gate closed behind so clackety clack the lock off track and the broken latch
no more can be given to this escape than the winged feet as they dust down the thatched and brambled pathway
limestone bricks your fort with sad fossils in its walls and cracked upon its fireplace spirits of space at millenium's pace
so be it: the fashion stead
the roaring fire sorely controlled engulfs
its obsessive and oxygenated oratory silently snapping and subtle through three a.m.
these lives catscradled and entwined fingertip to fingertip
one may rock and creak and while away the hours
culling the past from some endless well of dream and depth and polished chrome
sipping from the pail that fine wine crystal clear
-strange how this tincture stains so carmine once spilled-
while a sun streaks double and tripled exposed across the sky
the whispers that come as the harbingers of one storm or another
argue and debate the blessings of the arcing moon
how fast is fleet
these details and ripples of the world ironed by high speed
is there a curve to flee; the horizon lines seem so straightened
the cheeks and shoulders scathed and sewn
passing branches carelessly wrought and reaching
hands flown
damn the rainbow
for it continues to move just slightly out of sight to the upper right
and this 30 mile trail has stretched to infinity
the abilities of light speed notwithstanding
time moves onward in its themes of utter disregard
as these footprints merely wear canyons in the crust
the glacial flow silently follows
buried
the peach pit left in dust
struggles desperate in this dry tundra
for the air
its thirst divine
tinted red by a fading sun insinuating itself behind the foothills at the end of a breathless day
kneeling
the sapling is cradled away in velvet grace
to the side greener and the pasture sweeter
so small its sky 7 inches high and trembles at the slightest breath
it needs worry not: with love it will grow and provide the shade and sweet
children will carve hearts and initials into its pageless papyrus bark
its lifespan catscradled and penned in
oh silent verification as it drops again
the peach will tumble the canyon walls
and begin its life anew in the shifting sands and the footsteps at the river shore
the rain continues unabated though not so frigid and ruthless
as night falls the rainbow fervently sought fades and the mists roll in with permanence
the trail fey and changed in such gray, drab and humid comfort
ghosts sway in the gullies and sing of the lost souls upon the road
now not so alone as another has joined, has showed,
the infinite trek has had its summit peaked
and the only thing left to do
is take one step off the trail and soar
nothing more
the colors have haloed the moon
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
as a matter of fact I removed several SO's and even switched a few words here and there.
Also, the two So's in the beginning must stay. The last two as well. They are there for flow and also because I like how they sound... they are the meter/beat.
Allen Ginsberg used to use specific words to measure out his beat in a poem, his favorite being the word "who."
LOL while I'm no Ginsberg, I like having the same liberties.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 TO BE THE HUNTED/alas the hunter
oh the ammo belt snaps tight
cheap
easy
slipknot love at 650 feet per second
be it whomever said love is blind
take aim and be kind
my apple adorns me
bitten
spit
smitten
kicked
if you have the one shot
and feel the need to give
I say aim high motherfucker
For if it isn't the will or the dominatrix
It is the jeans and the sneakers that flow so smoothly down the pavement
through the alley
over the fence
Cracks notwithstanding
Fucking tree in the way
Your love poem for Kate (DOWNTOWN/a soliloquy) was beautiful, even if at times a bit naive/cliché, but still beautiful.... and sad. I like how you introduce the 2 characters and that there's a marked transition in the poem from when they shared the music/dance to when they started drifting apart, when the music changed and the dancer fell.
some parts I really liked:
She lived a sunshine existence
Painted as a smiling face
In bright pastel
[...]
He was a threaded song who made his way
In no particular fashion
With his walk-a-mile-or-so-with-me attitude
[...]
He played on
Creating the stage
Upon which their lives stood
Their transient audience passing by
Ignorant
To what was being displayed
[...]
She swayed in the breeze
An aspen leaf in the fall
A rising star in spring
He bled music
Committed to this suicidal beauty
He bled rivers
And everywhere there were people
Who looked upwards
Reflective
Questioning
Tasted something sweet
And saw the twinkle of her final twirl
[...]
And the ending ofcourse:
Once again a visionary’s soliloquy
A song and dance
The evanescence of painted footsteps
Evaporating this dawn
As she echoes away into the sunshine
A spherical spiritual space
She resides on a sidewalk of light
And sings her prayer of union
this one is kinda crazy, but I enjoyed it
fast-paced, packed with images of every sort
one idea triggers the next and I like that
Originally posted by setaside2 A new one for everyone... inspiration was a conversation about dreams I was having with someone once. She couldn't remember what the heck she had been looking at and said "maybe it was a hand..." It set me off. Let me know if you like.
maybe it was just a hand
or a secret or a mission or a kiss in an envelope…
a poison inkwell, a letter, a missive, the story of a life unborn or unshared or unknown, it makes no difference...
the direction of the next spring thaw, the flow of a leaf from branch to mud...
spring to fall..
the path love may take as it barrels through the halls of time uncontrollable and dangerous
a handshake, a breath, the last word of the last fairy godmother on the last planet earth
the feather plucked from an angel's wing
the mission of god
the lyrics to the song of youth
the answer to immortality
The last petal to fall from the wilted lily
The tip of an unused crayon
Was it the whisper of a ancient friend lost in time, ages past, lives ago
The secret feeling a children’s novel gives
The satisfaction of a sleeping feline
Curdled cream
The milk gone sour
Pages turning on the hour
A clock to measure the beats of the heart
A device to trap the better mouse
Or the hot air in any given water balloon…
The key, steam, the hot mineral spring
A ribbon on air, the footprint left bare, snow
Falling in cotton silence stuffy and simple
Arrowheads, sandstone, hieroglyphs, dreams long dead
The pavement expands in the sun, cracking to reveal the hidden homes that we have built upon and up and on in order to prove our superiority
The mud: it dries in the sun, the evaporation a last rebellion the wind carries away
The clock ticks its memento, the only thing it remembers, the previous second wiped by the next
A tread, the step, the fall
Ah damn the ignorant thread so graceless and passion free
Even with wings unfurled the angel smokes a Kamel
Wherein lies the loss? The thought? The cab fare home?
The hole in the pocket is only somewhat to blame as the sprinklers fade the brick wall
The fence cracked and burned, the sitters all fled,
On roam, the bats cry sonar in search of sustenance
Who shall teach to read the echo? When will friction kill the snowman?
Perhaps it WAS just the hand, nails sharp and intimate
Maybe it was the nighttime sigh, a dream left hanging from a lampshade
The sheets crumpled to the floor, the trial at an end, the curtains in the breeze
Was it together then? Or was the hand held previously owned?
I’ve left my breath at the last stop, torn loose at the one before
The ticket is unclear and the directions only indicate the color of the car in which I am to sleep.
God help the conductor.
I hear the busboy has a gun.
Someone put this glitter
In the paint in my ceiling
Little tiny multi-colored
Drops of light
Suspended by an unknown
Chemical compound
Slaves to destiny
They wink in and out
With the power of a light switch
The picture of interstellar fate
“The stars are all burnt out, mommy”
Because of an alternating current
Provided by “Public Service”
I lie here soaked with envy
Too hot to hold
Too distant to grasp
I would turn to conventional imitation
But
I don’t smoke
My flashlight’s dead
And the matches I buy
Don’t have the will to burn bright enough
Though with a breath
The flame there is gone
With the stars in the ceiling
The smiling eyes overhead
There are days and nights
When I feel that I’ve been out and
Away for too long
Overexposed
I miss my roof-beam quarks
Flickering there like firelight
In the fading glare of the television
And a madness seems to seep in
I cover myself
With paint
Glitter
And fake the naked in my eye
I encircle the artistry of downtown
Until arrested
Happy and breathless
Leaving my sideshow in the gutters
With the oilslicked rainwash
To reflect the nature of dawn that day
The tears in my eyes get swept away
By machinery and construction
Lost in the dust and confusion of progress
And I wander my way
Elsewhere
Home perhaps
The lost clown
Mad in the head and out of touch
To the point of distraction
As if perhaps I wasn’t
As if perhaps I could prove otherwise
And I have to face down my fears
The glitter in the ceiling
And I blame it on the hundred or so faces
That stare back at me
And look remarkably like someone I once knew
I flicker like firelight
In the fading residue of the television
And it’s not my fault.
you definetely have a way with words *sigh*
I like your thoughts
Originally posted by setaside2 BODICE/free
watch it...
when birds flock to destiny the pecking order diminishes to just one.
and when they are full, and they are difficult to satiate, they stand around eyeing the remains of your freedom, suspicious of any sort of movement, awaiting the moment that life may return from it's fleeing flight. You are the bait in this modern world of mechanical sight and where man's imitations of nature are vinyl, polystyrene, and tupperware.
the natural cozy is gone. the lightning captured in a cup. no force greater than the push of the air in a subway tunnel, cannonball ejection the only chance for survival.
and if you hit the moon? what then?
I don't blame you little astronaut, your breath was caught in the troposphere.
These days the whirlwinds and dust devils are obligatory child's play as we rush to draw upon each other for the wisdom to predict whether our weather and which witch is which. I drew, I bled, and my needle, my pencil, they litter the sand.
So careless of me.
I had forgotten to allow for gravity in my life or death equation.
Algebraic love. It's so formal, so dedicated.
One is left to trust the one given solution in a multiple choice arena, nothing but twisted numerics and negatives. God bless the wicked blank page,
the tempation of starting over,
the newest of new car scents and the open road.
It always smells as though someone discovered their soul or somesuch, which really doesn't make sense,
you know, because you find yourself looking down at the odometer and it says like "23 miles."
That car hasn't been anywhere but down the paths of your mind.
But then, the idea sets you off about possibilities, man, the future intrinsic to any new purchase...
Was it the excitement? The adrenaline or pheromone rush of owning something so powerful as even a 4 cylinder? The feeling of "I OWN this country by the THROAT. I'm throttling that bastard." You grip the keys and you are in love for the first time, the skies livid with whatever metaphor you would wish to place upon them, the wind in the hair... these things are so trite, you think, so unoriginal, but who can deny the feeling? Who can deny the pleasure and pain of being self and being human and being in love and just DRIVING THAT FUCKER DOWN THE ROAD not looking back once? It's amazing, the feel of things.
It's the vibration, the jerk, the motion, the rerun, the replay. It's being reborn on a leather dashboard. There is beauty to the speed and an elegance in the way it is nigh impossible to tear your eyes from the sights:
The ribbons! The ticker tape! A homecoming hero on his way to lunch. So ethereal, he practically fades in the backlit dust beyond the garden, if only bending to take in the slight, sweet fragrance of the ever-so-common dandelion. Living was never so enthralling. Liberation never so poignant.
Can you breathe?
I was naive when I loved Kate... and that poem was written at the height of my realization of this. And that sentence is just grammatical crap right there LOL...
But yes. I loved her in that storybook contemplative fire sort of way. A part of me, though now very small, still does. It is good to remember passion of that level, no matter how altruistic, because without it we really won't appreciate the moments when we really feel alive amongst those we feel utterly dead.
I would not be the same without Kate, for better or for worse, and she should be remembered for that, if nothing else... but of course there are more reasons than one to remember her by.
Thanks for reading miss buru... i am hoping you enjoy them; it seems that you are.
be well,
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
a cascading lilac lily graces the wave
the earth barren and dug
toes of boots worn thin kick and graze
the feathers of the fallen and flightless dove
all things reach for heaven with one hand
with the gift of self enclosed in another
no more hands left with which to give or grant
no last words to fill the heart of a stranded lover
she lies a silent ghost
a locked and capped chest of dreams once sewn
in this loam parched and ornate and unknown
This air we breathe bonding in it's carriage of a last breath shared by many
Her secrets whispered in scribbled pen, late night vibrations and wavelengths
We hear them now, feel them grow
And only here, at this moment, does it begin to rain
a soft and silent downpour, a celestial flow
This land in such dire need
This sprout dying of thirst spreading petals, a frantic lace
Straining for heaven, now outstretched,
both hands crying and sighing for grace
flitting like dampened butterflies.
The tongued lightning tasting
testing
the stumbling passersby wilted in their pain,
unable to see the ghosts they continuously walk through
So many so alone, these withered faces in a hurricane
The wind begins to howl its passion and its fury
its low pressure kick brings the blossom high above a land now creaking
shaking
eroding in flash flood
and she falls
a gliding lily now upon the wave carried away
a ferocious and unforseen pace
the rest of us sit in silence grouped by nations
breathing the last of her air and wondering upon a soul so far ashore
hoping upon hope that this flood will abate and her color will remain
and among all things that her blossoms may continue to bloom in remembrance
as tall and gazing betwixt the living and heavens we all someday ascertain
hoping she came out of the rain.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
people in your life will always be a part of you- no matter what happens or how time passes. this is something im learning.
take care Marc
Some people have to have the sultry evenings Cocktails in the blue, red and grey But I like every minute of the day.
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Comments
it's party time
and i SO got the clock
:P
and you have email
now get the $%^k away from me
Just want to say you write beautifully, "ISLE/future holdings" was a great read, and a very visual prose piece, also liked your references to time, the feel of the calm after the storm, the breaking of the new day
I also really liked the one about the girl/father and paper planes
the final verses:
Folded by shaking hands
Into yet another paper airplane
Shy and slight
Made in the image of its creator
It flew as predicted.
Buru.
so beautiful and tragic, if those two can go together
vulnerable... I guess that is the word I want
or exposed
Do you think the world crucifies the persons who show their fragility? And the butterfly reference is brilliant ofcourse
damn! I wish I had started reading your stuff sooner
but I'm quite new to this forum so there's my excuse
it was very acid, sarcastic
the games of love...
these parts are the ones I liked the most
And the city at night...
One doesn’t look for the moon.
Your stars are made of neon glass.
Fluorescent lights point north.
To be homeward bound
Costs $2.50 a mile,
And to fall in love can cost you
Fifty
Dollars
An hour.
For most people it’s a fair deal.
[...]
In love the pen and the sword
Are equals.
And that kills me.
And for that she dies.
For the fact that I still bleed
She dies.
[...]
The blood is at my feet.
The neon flickers a dull red...
And apology is the only weapon with which
I can aim.
Back me up if I end up firing blanks.
Very good ending!!
I must bow to you and your endless and most infinite patience (and might I also add: good taste).
You will find that Paper Airplane was posted unfinished. People have liked both versions, though the shorter version was posted by accident LOL.
The finished version is elsewhere in this thread.
Soon you will know the impertinence and garrulousness that this forum has had to endure from me.
wishing you well madam.
seta
step out of the paradigm
bar the words "so" and "free"
and compress your cowabungas
to five or six lines
dare ya
however while it won't surprise a SOUL, it must be known that I have never had a poem 5 or 6 lines long. It's like giving me this little box to live in. I tend to punch out of such boxes.
And, in just a little bit, the last poem shall be edited to remove 80% of the so's from said message/prose/pome/missive.
blah. hope you're happy ya tyrant.
and you're ass kickin's are now up to 6.
they are SO up to 6.
but I'll see what I can and cannot do under the smaller roof and in the confines of actual structure. You all know that, in general, my mottos is FUCK STRUCTURE, though there really is a lot of structure to my stuff it is SO FREE. LOL.
see you sooooooooooon.
seta
P.S. I really don't think I abuse the word free, now that I ponder it... but we'll do as asked...
perhaps one day you'll learn to fight your way outta one...
(asskickin's my ASS)
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
ain't speaking chinese here
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
PERHAPS, miss tenaciousAAAAAAAAAA
if your PARTICULAR box wasn't so stretched and overused <COUGH AHEM COUGH> I'd be able to find my way around... let alone fight my way out...
wait... are these my car keys?
LOL!!!!!
master sultry... she's a machine. but one with no timing and one that takes a few days to return a sling or two hee hee.
her daughter kicks her ass on a regular basis. which is as it should be, of course.
allll talk voice box on the rocks squawkin bout her socks and various locks upon her pants. Shock upon shock when she throws the swing and I begin to move again; her world tilts sideways and suddenly the carpet feels so soothing and would you just look at the frescoes in the ceiling who put those there she wonders when like any good gentleman I offer my hand and help her up only to put her on her ass again.
LOL consider that prognostication of the first order.
with a great deal of love and movement
the set aside tooooooooooo
yeah.
LOL.
now where was that poetry thread around here? it was here a minute ago.. all soft and somber and having fun taking itself so damn seriously and being all pretentious and snooty...
it must be around here somewhere.
this pretentious snootiness?
it's right here
{:
:P
and i'm just pulling your leg
~ it's a lovely thing just as it was
Also, the two So's in the beginning must stay. The last two as well. They are there for flow and also because I like how they sound... they are the meter/beat.
Allen Ginsberg used to use specific words to measure out his beat in a poem, his favorite being the word "who."
LOL while I'm no Ginsberg, I like having the same liberties.
i'm fond of "and" myself
this is so wonderfully fierce
some parts I really liked:
She lived a sunshine existence
Painted as a smiling face
In bright pastel
[...]
He was a threaded song who made his way
In no particular fashion
With his walk-a-mile-or-so-with-me attitude
[...]
He played on
Creating the stage
Upon which their lives stood
Their transient audience passing by
Ignorant
To what was being displayed
[...]
She swayed in the breeze
An aspen leaf in the fall
A rising star in spring
He bled music
Committed to this suicidal beauty
He bled rivers
And everywhere there were people
Who looked upwards
Reflective
Questioning
Tasted something sweet
And saw the twinkle of her final twirl
[...]
And the ending ofcourse:
Once again a visionary’s soliloquy
A song and dance
The evanescence of painted footsteps
Evaporating this dawn
As she echoes away into the sunshine
A spherical spiritual space
She resides on a sidewalk of light
And sings her prayer of union
Buru.
fast-paced, packed with images of every sort
one idea triggers the next and I like that
I like your thoughts
I was naive when I loved Kate... and that poem was written at the height of my realization of this. And that sentence is just grammatical crap right there LOL...
But yes. I loved her in that storybook contemplative fire sort of way. A part of me, though now very small, still does. It is good to remember passion of that level, no matter how altruistic, because without it we really won't appreciate the moments when we really feel alive amongst those we feel utterly dead.
I would not be the same without Kate, for better or for worse, and she should be remembered for that, if nothing else... but of course there are more reasons than one to remember her by.
Thanks for reading miss buru... i am hoping you enjoy them; it seems that you are.
be well,
seta
a cascading lilac lily graces the wave
the earth barren and dug
toes of boots worn thin kick and graze
the feathers of the fallen and flightless dove
all things reach for heaven with one hand
with the gift of self enclosed in another
no more hands left with which to give or grant
no last words to fill the heart of a stranded lover
she lies a silent ghost
a locked and capped chest of dreams once sewn
in this loam parched and ornate and unknown
This air we breathe bonding in it's carriage of a last breath shared by many
Her secrets whispered in scribbled pen, late night vibrations and wavelengths
We hear them now, feel them grow
And only here, at this moment, does it begin to rain
a soft and silent downpour, a celestial flow
This land in such dire need
This sprout dying of thirst spreading petals, a frantic lace
Straining for heaven, now outstretched,
both hands crying and sighing for grace
flitting like dampened butterflies.
The tongued lightning tasting
testing
the stumbling passersby wilted in their pain,
unable to see the ghosts they continuously walk through
So many so alone, these withered faces in a hurricane
The wind begins to howl its passion and its fury
its low pressure kick brings the blossom high above a land now creaking
shaking
eroding in flash flood
and she falls
a gliding lily now upon the wave carried away
a ferocious and unforseen pace
the rest of us sit in silence grouped by nations
breathing the last of her air and wondering upon a soul so far ashore
hoping upon hope that this flood will abate and her color will remain
and among all things that her blossoms may continue to bloom in remembrance
as tall and gazing betwixt the living and heavens we all someday ascertain
hoping she came out of the rain.
take care Marc
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
i don't know if I am fortunate or not but that particular realization is one I made when I was very very young, say, 6 years old.
it has stuck with me, for better or for worse, through all this and that and the other.
almost a second enitity in and of its own right. someday we shall see where such tangible sensation may take us.
wishing you and your daughter all the best, sir.
be well.
marc