Crap, I'm on the tipsy side. I hope my thing'll be coherent when I finally get around to writing it... Maybe I should email T while I'm at it 
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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