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cold, that grasps fingertips as tight as it can
knees buckle and shake underneath the thick denim hair, as white as the cold remembrance of the time where the grass lit up the sky footprints, left behind in lime yellow smushed into the ground the children who have chosen to remain as children they are covered in dirt and debris from the holes that they have dug themselves into the wanderer who watches lays in the golden dust small stretched shadows grow longer the blood runs through sun veins we follow the way it goes from the source intertwining like tangled vines the epitaph of an old home the most simple season where greenery once was it all turned yellow on a Tuesday western kids who know of what the woods contain discover the poems that are brought through by the wind like a monsoon that takes hold of words and pushes them out through gaping mouths a permanent vacation spot a final resting place of boyish behavior a space of interlude between two destinations |
Photo by @Linusandhiscamera
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A Flurry
You’ve taken scoops out of me with a tiny spoon
It started as a single snowflake
There’s only so much of me left
That then collected into a flurry
I have felt this since you asked how I was, to someone other than me
As time went on, the snow packed thicker
I took notice of it when I could have stopped paying attention to the small bump
Your words led it get bigger
A biological reaction
I took what you have given me and ran until no one could catch me
But something else began to grow too
You can catch me
But I push you out and you keep coming back
What is there behind my ribs?
A, now, giant snowball that you enjoy with a tiny spoon like ice cream
You devour it slowly but I can feel every dull scoop and soft bite
But the snow melts
Although it is still cold, it continues to melt
And maybe nothing is left
But the cold still remains
And so I must wait until it is warm again
Come home
for you
I fear you love someone
here is the sharp brush of longwinded false hope
these stupid strings
bound and pulled
from under the skin
the strings grow tighter
after the smallest words are spoken
You can cut them out if you wanted to
if you knew they were there
even when i try to loosen them
they get pulled tighter
then the sharpness grows
and I know of this sickness
the strings have gotten tangled too deep
I can see someone else
holding thrown-away words that I want
every word is yours
but I want them back
come home and unbind me
I’ve been feeling very small lately
But when you’re small
You can fit into the spaces that most people can’t or don’t want to go
I’m there and I’m watching
I picture one person watching me
Because it only takes one
and it only takes one look
But when you’re small
You can fit into the spaces that most people can’t or don’t want to go
I’m there and I’m watching
I picture one person watching me
Because it only takes one
and it only takes one look
A girl sits among everything, all of the fluff and fillers. Her face stands out among all of the mundane. In something so simple as preparing for the day to come, she is found. As she washes her face, her bathroom begins to transform into the most vibrant colors, though they are not vibrant to anyone else but her. She is surrounded by magnificence, but compared to her, the orange cascading mountains become irrelevant. She is a mountain. She stands alone. Many memories and surprises hide within her peaks and crevices. We see her in her highs and lows. Every day with her become immortalized. Pastels and soft pinks have never been brighter. No one will understand it the same way. She is not just a person, but many objects and people wrapped up into a homemade concoction. Her home is remade for us. It has been removed from its mold and stretched out across new walls. We have been welcomed and left to explore the remnants on our own. She has left us with a map. Across it, we are left to create the dots that we must connect.
There’s a large portion of my life that I don’t remember. I’m not good with time or pinpointing a certain memory and I’ve always been jealous of people who can say how old they were before they recall a specific memory. Pieces seem to be missing and I can’t tell if the pieces that are there are memories, movies, or dreams. From certain memories that I can piece together, I know that I hate whispers, and when I’m not invited to hear them. I know that they are not always for me, but I am haunted by the ones that were.
I witness the young ones collect
peach pits and assort them along the wall in rows.
They know the best cures for caffeine hangovers
and real hangovers. They know trauma and love and
how they are forever intertwined and sometimes one.
Our time together will be over soon and
afterwards they wouldn’t have known me at all.
I am the wanderer who watches
When it’s over I would know of them
what they never would of me.
peach pits and assort them along the wall in rows.
They know the best cures for caffeine hangovers
and real hangovers. They know trauma and love and
how they are forever intertwined and sometimes one.
Our time together will be over soon and
afterwards they wouldn’t have known me at all.
I am the wanderer who watches
When it’s over I would know of them
what they never would of me.
On a day where everyone found solace in the sun, she was singed by the dark
It’s a drifting
A swallowing whole
A sinking
That only one knew, knows
And a stinging in the middle of her chest
But around the hole are where the embers still burn
I could no longer feel her heart
The same thoughts would pop into her mind and she’d feel the stinging again
It was a hand with sharp nails gripping around the edges of her
They all enjoyed the sun, but she was kept away in preparation for what she knew was next
They could go on living without any idea of what is to come for her
She wanted to be with them
But if she had gone, she would have wasted the day and tomorrow would be too close
It’s a drifting
A swallowing whole
A sinking
That only one knew, knows
And a stinging in the middle of her chest
But around the hole are where the embers still burn
I could no longer feel her heart
The same thoughts would pop into her mind and she’d feel the stinging again
It was a hand with sharp nails gripping around the edges of her
They all enjoyed the sun, but she was kept away in preparation for what she knew was next
They could go on living without any idea of what is to come for her
She wanted to be with them
But if she had gone, she would have wasted the day and tomorrow would be too close
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To the one beside me: Part IIYou stood by me again
You really shouldn’t I wouldn’t want you to catch what I have It would make you selfish and consume you But we finally spoke Maybe we didn’t But to me we did But it happened again I dreamt of you again And you spoke even more I tried to dress like you because you told me to I thought you were finished with me but it turns out you were just hiding back there Under all the rest of that mess Once I dug it all up I found you Rolled up in a little ball You were a piece of paper that I had written on and tried to destroy and burn But I guess I couldn’t bring myself to do it |
a child's ride home
I see the moon
Can you see the moon?
You gotta sit up
He’s following us because he likes us
I don’t like him because because he’s mean
He hides from us and I can’t see him
The Fox is up there too
He runs and lives there with the moon
Fox is good
Can you see the moon?
You gotta sit up
He’s following us because he likes us
I don’t like him because because he’s mean
He hides from us and I can’t see him
The Fox is up there too
He runs and lives there with the moon
Fox is good
Antidote
She is a virus that gets passed along from friend to friend
Once she’s done infecting one she moves onto the next
They are never a good enough host
She poisoned him and took him from me
He was polluted and riddled with her
She bled him out
It was too late when his cure was found in me
I hope now he’s cured of her
I’ve already laid him to rest
She is not of man or woman
She is fear
She is a virus that gets passed along from friend to friend
Once she’s done infecting one she moves onto the next
They are never a good enough host
She poisoned him and took him from me
He was polluted and riddled with her
She bled him out
It was too late when his cure was found in me
I hope now he’s cured of her
I’ve already laid him to rest
She is not of man or woman
She is fear
a late haiku
sitting in the rain
i think of what we can share
new kind of wet dream
sitting in the rain
i think of what we can share
new kind of wet dream
2/13/18
I whisper “I love you” to the people I know will never hear it
Over and over again
I whisper it the way Elio whispers his name over the phone
He remembers
But I remember what hasn’t happened
Over and over again
I whisper it the way Elio whispers his name over the phone
He remembers
But I remember what hasn’t happened
i love you i love you i love you
Maybe it will echo and reach you
It will never get quieter
Never get louder
It lingers
On my lips until it reaches yours
It will never get quieter
Never get louder
It lingers
On my lips until it reaches yours
I found out we are not the same.
It was in the early 2000s at a Chuck E Cheese. My own mother mistaken as my kidnapper. I am now positive that was what the worker at the entrance thought of us. My mother's Puerto Rican and Filipino blood make her hair and skin different colors than mine. In detailed examination her face was mine. At a quick glance you wouldn’t guess that she was mine and I was hers. Walking towards the exit of the play place, the Chuck E. Cheese gatekeeper stops the two of us. The woman does not let us leave but instead directs a question toward me. At 5 years old, I didn't understand. It was a confusing question. “Honey, is this your mother?” Is this a trick? She was only doing her job right? To stand firm on who shall not pass. Making sure some Hispanic lady isn’t a predator who decided she wanted to take home someone else’s blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter and claim her as her own.
It was in the early 2000s at a Chuck E Cheese. My own mother mistaken as my kidnapper. I am now positive that was what the worker at the entrance thought of us. My mother's Puerto Rican and Filipino blood make her hair and skin different colors than mine. In detailed examination her face was mine. At a quick glance you wouldn’t guess that she was mine and I was hers. Walking towards the exit of the play place, the Chuck E. Cheese gatekeeper stops the two of us. The woman does not let us leave but instead directs a question toward me. At 5 years old, I didn't understand. It was a confusing question. “Honey, is this your mother?” Is this a trick? She was only doing her job right? To stand firm on who shall not pass. Making sure some Hispanic lady isn’t a predator who decided she wanted to take home someone else’s blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter and claim her as her own.
Below
The last words are far under now
Under the dirt
I can’t remember the feeling of being buried in them
Instead they have buried themselves
They are hidden from me
The driving force that propels me forward has been eclipsed
All I know now is anger
Lately I have felt the rumblings of a beast
It hides in the pit where it is dark and damp
The ceiling drips with his venom
This beast is fulfilled by the minds of the arrogant
The ones who think they know all and are all
The ignorant minds that know nothing of this world
You cannot tell them or else you help give birth to a beast of their own
An action does not belong to you
An interest does not belong to you
You are used by the interest and thrown away if you are proved useless and ineffective
Under the dirt
I can’t remember the feeling of being buried in them
Instead they have buried themselves
They are hidden from me
The driving force that propels me forward has been eclipsed
All I know now is anger
Lately I have felt the rumblings of a beast
It hides in the pit where it is dark and damp
The ceiling drips with his venom
This beast is fulfilled by the minds of the arrogant
The ones who think they know all and are all
The ignorant minds that know nothing of this world
You cannot tell them or else you help give birth to a beast of their own
An action does not belong to you
An interest does not belong to you
You are used by the interest and thrown away if you are proved useless and ineffective
The Cadence Poem
From a friend who lost his mother
"I knew
I guess I knew, I had to decide
And throughout this time
Well at the time where it mattered is when I knew
It's just something that feels so distant now
It is far off into the horizon
I can no longer reach out and grab this moment
Instead, instead it's just lost
It floats away from my grasp and evaporates
It's an occasional spray of icy mist that tickled my cheeks and face
This moment used to be so close
So near
To me
It would, it could fill my nose with its spicy scent
Now that scent has gone mild
It is bland and as dull as an old overused knife
But I still manage
I still manage to hold on"
I guess I knew, I had to decide
And throughout this time
Well at the time where it mattered is when I knew
It's just something that feels so distant now
It is far off into the horizon
I can no longer reach out and grab this moment
Instead, instead it's just lost
It floats away from my grasp and evaporates
It's an occasional spray of icy mist that tickled my cheeks and face
This moment used to be so close
So near
To me
It would, it could fill my nose with its spicy scent
Now that scent has gone mild
It is bland and as dull as an old overused knife
But I still manage
I still manage to hold on"
November 25th 2017 3:51 am
What is this newfound love?
I discovered what it is to fall in love. I thought, "is this me realizing the truth?"
My love which keeps me up at night
because each time I try to get comfortable and fall asleep it won't let me.
Because when I sleep my heart doesn't beat as fast.
It slows down too much that it may stop so it restarts itself and wakes me.
And so my love shouts "do not forget me, for I am what gives you life!"
It whispers in my ear when I am with company and when we speak of dreams.
It won't let me rest until I invest in it every last part of me.
I can not see the end of this stage of obsession
but at least it keeps me in its thoughts and throws at me moments of reassurance and comfort.
It is secure when I fail to be.
In my chest is a constant humming and it punches at me and sucks me deep into the floor underneath.
"I realize you are there but I need rest, let me sleep now, for just a moment, let me go."
Patience.
There's this feeling of anticipation like right when you're about to come home from a really long trip. You're right around the corner and can see the silhouette of your house in the distance. You're so tired and drained from the wait that you feel like you want to give up right then and there. That's how I feel. But I won't give up because I am so close. I have to fight discouragement and believe that what I have been promised will come to fruition because that's what I have to do to make it home.
The missing keys
,,I like how the meanings of apart and a part contradict their spellings.
There was a dead silence that filled the car and the stench of embarrassment and guilt was evident. Everyone in the car faced different directions and their eyes darted back and forth when there was accidental eye contact. I saw they're faces in the rear view mirror. Jaws clenched, lips slightly pursed and arms steady against the window. Each of them lost in themselves when focused. Their minds are computers, constantly changing and turning. Usually you can hear the small whispers and hums of the car radio but not this time. In the van before were fellow companions, but now are somewhat distant silhouettes of what they once were. They were afraid to open their mouths because they knew if they did, whatever words they spoke would be unwelcomed phrases, halted by beaming, fiery glares. There was no ill thoughts against each other, but each person a condescending thought against themselves. They knew they messed up but it was too late to turn back now.
There are two different types of distance.
There is the physical definition of distance, in the sense of long distance or being far away from someone, but distance can also mean being emotionally distant or apart from someone.
I used to not know which was more painful, but if you think about it, it's actually pretty clear.
You do not, truly know real distance until you are in the same room as a person that you were once so close with, but now no longer even know who you are looking at.
This once transparent person is now a shadow.
They have walls up on all four sides and there is not even the slightest crack for you to press through. The once loving, admiring glances of awe are suddenly nonexistent. Instead, they are empty looks with hints of panic, as though if anyone sees you looking that way anymore, you will face severe punishment. It's emotional detachment.
The literal pulling apart of two hearts that were once intertwined.
There was a dead silence that filled the car and the stench of embarrassment and guilt was evident. Everyone in the car faced different directions and their eyes darted back and forth when there was accidental eye contact. I saw they're faces in the rear view mirror. Jaws clenched, lips slightly pursed and arms steady against the window. Each of them lost in themselves when focused. Their minds are computers, constantly changing and turning. Usually you can hear the small whispers and hums of the car radio but not this time. In the van before were fellow companions, but now are somewhat distant silhouettes of what they once were. They were afraid to open their mouths because they knew if they did, whatever words they spoke would be unwelcomed phrases, halted by beaming, fiery glares. There was no ill thoughts against each other, but each person a condescending thought against themselves. They knew they messed up but it was too late to turn back now.
There are two different types of distance.
There is the physical definition of distance, in the sense of long distance or being far away from someone, but distance can also mean being emotionally distant or apart from someone.
I used to not know which was more painful, but if you think about it, it's actually pretty clear.
You do not, truly know real distance until you are in the same room as a person that you were once so close with, but now no longer even know who you are looking at.
This once transparent person is now a shadow.
They have walls up on all four sides and there is not even the slightest crack for you to press through. The once loving, admiring glances of awe are suddenly nonexistent. Instead, they are empty looks with hints of panic, as though if anyone sees you looking that way anymore, you will face severe punishment. It's emotional detachment.
The literal pulling apart of two hearts that were once intertwined.
A pen. A small blue pen.
I remember one time I was with a good friend before we were meeting up with our group. She bought me a blue pen. You would think of it as an odd insignificant gesture because it's just a small pen that doesn't even cost much, but it was special. Sentimental. I had no intention of buying it, nor was I trying to get someone else to buy it for me. I just simply exclaimed that I've always wanted one of those pens to draw with and maybe one day I would get one. As we walked out of the store she turned to me, reached inside her bag and handed me the blue pen. I looked at the pen and looked at her so immensely happy over such a small item that I felt like I was going to cry. Instead I just smiled and squealed as I thanked her for being so sweet and giving.
To the one beside me:
How is it that i do not know you? I feel as though I do but only as you would be in a dream. How can can I dream about us speaking if I don't know your voice. I have only caught half muttered phrases that weren't even directed toward me. I wonder if you've ever had my name in your mouth. Or my face has made a home in your mind. I wonder if you've thought of me when I'm not in front of you. Thought of me as beautiful.
At first glance, you are beautiful. I say that without expectation, I search for nothing in return, but I crave the sameaffections from you toward me. It may just be because I truly find your face beautiful but your mannerisms are too.
I don't know how it is that you manage to end up near me but you do. Our physical proximity is a strange reoccurrence, a strange pattern. I watched you in one exact moment. You scanned across the crowd and pushed through and stopped when your arm was touching mine. Why couldn't you have kept going? Why couldn't you have stopped earlier? Out of everyone in this space, out of hundreds of bodies yours was pressed against mine. You didn't pull away, you stayed, and I felt it.
This wasn't the first time. Our arms have met before. I am not in a spot of any significance, I stand where there is space just for me, but you seem to make space for yourself. I don't mind it. You are welcome to stand in my space. I never end up next to the person I was first standing next to. The erratic motions of the crowd move like clockwork, and in all of it, each time that you have began the night with me you come right back to where we started. I've seen you glance toward me. You turn away too quickly to really see me.
I've seen you with your friends but I see you alone sometimes too. I like how you are when you're alone. You don't search for people's attention. You are content in the quiet moment. You wait patiently for the conversation of others as if you had not much to say. You are quiet and reserved but that peacefulness that you carry is welcoming. It's a break from the suffocating personalities I despise so much.
Every time I look up, suddenly you are there. Sometimes I do try to find you but you aren't far. I don't know if it's a coincidence or on purpose but i can't help but notice that in the midst of such wonderful chaos we end up breathing the same air.
The last time.
You stood in front of me and I felt myself looking at the back of your neck. I saw where your hair drops and your neck meets your shoulders and moved down to your elbows and reaches to your hands.
I know those hands. Hands like yours deserve their own story. To describe hands like yours is describing love itself.
I've seen hands like yours before. I've focused specifically on your hands a lot. I don't try to see them but I do, just like I don't try to find you each week but I do.
Your face has been so close to mine if only you turned around.
At first glance, you are beautiful. I say that without expectation, I search for nothing in return, but I crave the sameaffections from you toward me. It may just be because I truly find your face beautiful but your mannerisms are too.
I don't know how it is that you manage to end up near me but you do. Our physical proximity is a strange reoccurrence, a strange pattern. I watched you in one exact moment. You scanned across the crowd and pushed through and stopped when your arm was touching mine. Why couldn't you have kept going? Why couldn't you have stopped earlier? Out of everyone in this space, out of hundreds of bodies yours was pressed against mine. You didn't pull away, you stayed, and I felt it.
This wasn't the first time. Our arms have met before. I am not in a spot of any significance, I stand where there is space just for me, but you seem to make space for yourself. I don't mind it. You are welcome to stand in my space. I never end up next to the person I was first standing next to. The erratic motions of the crowd move like clockwork, and in all of it, each time that you have began the night with me you come right back to where we started. I've seen you glance toward me. You turn away too quickly to really see me.
I've seen you with your friends but I see you alone sometimes too. I like how you are when you're alone. You don't search for people's attention. You are content in the quiet moment. You wait patiently for the conversation of others as if you had not much to say. You are quiet and reserved but that peacefulness that you carry is welcoming. It's a break from the suffocating personalities I despise so much.
Every time I look up, suddenly you are there. Sometimes I do try to find you but you aren't far. I don't know if it's a coincidence or on purpose but i can't help but notice that in the midst of such wonderful chaos we end up breathing the same air.
The last time.
You stood in front of me and I felt myself looking at the back of your neck. I saw where your hair drops and your neck meets your shoulders and moved down to your elbows and reaches to your hands.
I know those hands. Hands like yours deserve their own story. To describe hands like yours is describing love itself.
I've seen hands like yours before. I've focused specifically on your hands a lot. I don't try to see them but I do, just like I don't try to find you each week but I do.
Your face has been so close to mine if only you turned around.
She, I, he
February 20th, 2017
"It was like an unspoken language between us.
We haven't even known each other for that long but we shared this one commonality that I see as an inconvenience and she sees as a memory. She can look back without pain when I can't even think about opening my eyes. It was like we just knew what we wanted to say to each other without even saying it. After sharing the inner workings of your heart with a person it isn't the same afterwards, despite how much you try to go back to that starting place. Maybe she was afraid of me at first, and of the possible anger she thought I must have been harboring underneath my throat that I could spit at her at any moment, but I was exhausted and she was and is not to blame. She was merely caught up in it the same way I was. It had all ended for her before it got far enough to be something that I would consider of real importance. Maybe it was to him. Maybe she was real to him and I was never that. Despite giving away so much of myself, I receive nothing in return. It was stolen from me and I was blinded by the thief. I get no recognition. I get no greeting, no smile, no gazes in my direction, not even an accidental glance, as if I was nothing. I am nothing. He couldn't muster the strength to look at me. He wiped me from existence and memory and laughed in the distance. He felt my presence within his vicinity and all he could do was hide behind his own skin. He was ungallant and deficient.
If not him, then her. To show him how much power I still hold, I tell her what I have thought of her: She is beautiful. I can see why he picked her. I held her, briefly without holding back and she let me. An image that remains from the day that I finally stood up straight. I didn't just stand, I jumped and I danced. I praised and thanked. I was free. If only he could just see us for what we really were. To him she was ease and accessibility and I was attention and affection that became an annoyance and a hinderance. I was devoted and doting and he scavenged from me all I had to give.
She knew better. I didn't.
He was both a snake and a wolf. He slithers his way into the deepest parts of you and prowls at his meal with hungry eyes. Or perhaps what is hungry is his heart. He is empty when he claims to be full. But I am a lion. This strength and pride not my own but given to me by another. On my own I would disintegrate into exactly what he thinks of me, nothing. I do not disappear. I am here. I am here. Do you see me yet."
"It was like an unspoken language between us.
We haven't even known each other for that long but we shared this one commonality that I see as an inconvenience and she sees as a memory. She can look back without pain when I can't even think about opening my eyes. It was like we just knew what we wanted to say to each other without even saying it. After sharing the inner workings of your heart with a person it isn't the same afterwards, despite how much you try to go back to that starting place. Maybe she was afraid of me at first, and of the possible anger she thought I must have been harboring underneath my throat that I could spit at her at any moment, but I was exhausted and she was and is not to blame. She was merely caught up in it the same way I was. It had all ended for her before it got far enough to be something that I would consider of real importance. Maybe it was to him. Maybe she was real to him and I was never that. Despite giving away so much of myself, I receive nothing in return. It was stolen from me and I was blinded by the thief. I get no recognition. I get no greeting, no smile, no gazes in my direction, not even an accidental glance, as if I was nothing. I am nothing. He couldn't muster the strength to look at me. He wiped me from existence and memory and laughed in the distance. He felt my presence within his vicinity and all he could do was hide behind his own skin. He was ungallant and deficient.
If not him, then her. To show him how much power I still hold, I tell her what I have thought of her: She is beautiful. I can see why he picked her. I held her, briefly without holding back and she let me. An image that remains from the day that I finally stood up straight. I didn't just stand, I jumped and I danced. I praised and thanked. I was free. If only he could just see us for what we really were. To him she was ease and accessibility and I was attention and affection that became an annoyance and a hinderance. I was devoted and doting and he scavenged from me all I had to give.
She knew better. I didn't.
He was both a snake and a wolf. He slithers his way into the deepest parts of you and prowls at his meal with hungry eyes. Or perhaps what is hungry is his heart. He is empty when he claims to be full. But I am a lion. This strength and pride not my own but given to me by another. On my own I would disintegrate into exactly what he thinks of me, nothing. I do not disappear. I am here. I am here. Do you see me yet."
It's not brain science or rocket surgery
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"It is becoming rather than being."
I used to think that everyone had one defining moment in their lives. This moment helped you find out who you are or who you are supposed to be. From that discovery you develop that single identity as your life unfolds. I remember hearing people share stories of testimonials that inspired their artwork that were unique. I had trouble deciphering what my story was. As I matured, I delved into learning about the aspects of myself that gave me my individual sense of self. I understood that one specific moment or characteristic does not define a person. It was only until after I came to that realization that I experienced a big moment in my own life. In summer, 2014, I had been experiencing fainting, dizzy spells, and blurred vision which made creating art extremely painstakingly difficult. I was under the impression that it was chronic migraines and tried to move on. During a vacation that same year, I was involved in a severe bicycle accident. I was taken to the hospital where I was told that I had a concussion and needed a CT scan. I was visited by the neurosurgeon and was shown images of my brain. One area of my brain was clearly larger than it should be. I was diagnosed with a condition called hydrocephalus. As a result I’d need a shunt placed in my head that would connect to my stomach that would drain the fluid properly. I would live with that for the rest of my life and constantly risk infection. A few weeks later after multiple visits to the neurosurgeon back home in New York City, I was told I in fact needed brain surgery. Throughout this entire ordeal I was as cool as a cucumber. I felt as though I was strong enough to get through this and, if I did, the art that would result from the experience would be my salvation and my reward. I was motivated to never stop creating because I knew what it had felt like to almost lose the ability to. I sometimes believe that what is in your heart is shown through your hands. Whatever you do with your hands reveals the desires of your heart, both good and bad. I try to remain aware of my hands so that I am truly displaying the contents of my heart, with a little bit of help from my brain. |