‘last one week life was muddy. i felt like jumping into vangogh's wheatfield and to run thru the dry hay roaring mad and morphing into a rabid dog and bark bark bark at the crows and my flesh shredded and gut spilled by the angry leaves till my white milky canine bone shine and i fall with throat dry and a black feather between my fangs.’ - Fobbin on 2.5.02

That’s bloody good stuff, Fobbin! (Despite questionable grammar.) And thank the muddy week for getting that para out of you. I would.