34 files changed, 46 insertions, 44 deletions

@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing verse">
-    <p>Whenever you call me friend<br />I fall down on my knees and cry<br />because I know it’s the only thing<br />never to happen before in this<br />life is something you can’t see<br />it’s a pillow under a <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">hook shot</a><br /><a href="lovesong.html">I want to tell you something anything</a><br />but you are there and I am here<br />we are <a href="howtoread.html">trapped inside ourselves</a><br />and the distance is too far<br />you are something that I would tell<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">would be nothing</a> before too long<br />you are not the finisher of dreams<br />you are the beginning of <a href="in-bed.html">nightmares</a><br />or waking but I’m not sure which<br />this <a href="poetry-time.html">letter is for you</a> in the future<br />it will lead you on the path<br />of goodness or of rightness or of<br />wrong people and right meanings<br />or the meaning will be hidden<br />or wrestling the demon I will have become<br />restless under the starlight<br />it’s too bright here to think<br />the negatives would be pitch black<br />darkness of a silver mine<br />there are <a href="plant.html">no trees</a> here<br />where have you been where are you now<br />I am no longer here or there<br />you are anywhere or are you<br />up in the clouds is a ghost<br />he is white and blue like a cloud<br />he paints with his teeth<br />he paints the rainbow before midnight<br />that you can see from your window<br />staring out under the sunlight<br />through the gauze curtains<br /><a href="mountain.html">over the high mountain</a> far away<br />that is covered over with snow<br />past the rivers and forests<br />that lie awake under Orion<br />hunting the bull that runs forever<br />just out of his reach<br />pointing the way for the two of us<br />to join together in song or dance<br />or that other thing and sing<br />the Grinch down off Mount Crumpet<br /><a href="moon-drowning.html">his heart breaking his chest</a><br />thumping with the beat<br />his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUpxmlZ2hyM">little dog too</a> running running<br />with the bull full of laughter and blood<br />he can’t see it anymore because it’s become him<br />we are trapped he says we are<br />trapped in ourselves it turns out<br />that all along it wasn’t you or me<br />but he and her or her and him or<br />he and he or she and she or they<br />even they tell us that nothing has happened<br />even they know that it’s a big joke<br />one more thing to know before the death<br />we are crying like crocodiles<br />before their loved ones’ coffins<br />we are bellowing with grief like buffalo<br />on a berth of wild oxen<br />we are wailing our clothes are in rags<br /><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">we want</a> <a href="fire.html">we want</a> <a href="lovesong.html">we want</a><br />but never can we get<br />what is it<br />we don’t know what it is<br />but it’s something it’s anything<br />it’s too many people or not enough<br />it’s too few trees we need more<br />beavers to build riverdams we need<br />grapes too or <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245576">plums</a> from the ice box<br />or an ice box even would be nice<br />all I have is this cube isn’t that right<br />or is a sphere a cube a donut a coffee<br />cup your hands in mine yes that’s right<br />now bring the water to your face<br />clear and cool and<br />full of something<br />what is it wanting<br />or yearning<br />I can see in your eyes they’re clear now<br />they are as clear as a running stream<br />or the sky that’s clear right<br />or the water that is in the Bahamas<br />because I hear that’s clear<br />you’re as clear as the sound of a bell<br />you’re as clear as the <a href="table_contents.html">braying of horses</a><br />you’re as clear as the glass in God’s eye<br />and I<br />I’m as dull as an ox plowing<br /><a href="last-passenger.html" class="external">through fields in his yoke</a><br />I’m as dull as clouded amber<br />I’m dull as you find me<br />tonight after dinner<br />I’m reading the crossword<br />you’re sitting beside me<br />you’re watching TV.</p>
+    <p>Whenever you call me friend<br />I fall down on my knees and cry<br />because I know it’s the only thing<br />never to happen before in this<br />life is something you can’t see<br />it’s a pillow under a <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">hook shot</a><br /><a href="lovesong.html">I want to tell you something anything</a><br />but you are there and I am here<br />we are <a href="howtoread.html">trapped inside ourselves</a><br />and the distance is too far<br />you are something that I would tell<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">would be nothing</a> before too long<br />you are not the finisher of dreams<br />you are the beginning of <a href="in-bed.html">nightmares</a><br />or waking but I’m not sure which<br />this <a href="poetry-time.html">letter is for you</a> in the future<br />it will lead you on the path<br />of goodness or of rightness or of<br />wrong people and right meanings<br />or the meaning will be hidden<br />or wrestling the demon I will have become<br />restless under the starlight<br />it’s too bright here to think<br />the negatives would be pitch black<br />darkness of a silver mine<br />there are <a href="plant.html">no trees</a> here<br />where have you been where are you now<br />I am no longer here or there<br />you are anywhere or are you<br />up in the clouds is a ghost<br />he is white and blue like a cloud<br />he paints with his teeth<br />he paints the rainbow before midnight<br />that you can see from your window<br />staring out under the sunlight<br />through the gauze curtains<br /><a href="mountain.html">over the high mountain</a> far away<br />that is covered over with snow<br />past the rivers and forests<br />that lie awake under Orion<br />hunting the bull that runs forever<br />just out of his reach<br />pointing the way for the two of us<br />to join together in song or dance<br />or that other thing and sing<br />the Grinch down off Mount Crumpet<br /><a href="moon-drowning.html">his heart breaking his chest</a><br />thumping with the beat<br />his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUpxmlZ2hyM">little dog too</a> running running<br />with the bull full of laughter and blood<br />he can’t see it anymore because it’s become him<br />we are trapped he says we are<br />trapped in ourselves it turns out<br />that all along it wasn’t you or me<br />but he and her or her and him or<br />he and he or she and she or they<br />even they tell us that nothing has happened<br />even they know that it’s a big joke<br />one more thing to know before the death<br />we are crying like crocodiles<br />before their loved ones’ coffins<br />we are bellowing with grief like buffalo<br />on a berth of wild oxen<br />we are wailing our clothes are in rags<br /><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">we want</a> <a href="fire.html">we want</a> <a href="lovesong.html">we want</a><br />but never can we get<br />what is it<br />we don’t know what it is<br />but it’s something it’s anything<br />it’s too many people or not enough<br />it’s too few trees we need more<br />beavers to build riverdams we need<br />grapes too or <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245576">plums</a> from the ice box<br />or an ice box even would be nice<br />all I have is this cube isn’t that right<br />or is a sphere a cube a donut a coffee<br />cup your hands in mine yes that’s right<br />now bring the water to your face<br />clear and cool and<br />full of something<br />what is it wanting<br />or yearning<br />I can see in your eyes they’re clear now<br />they are as clear as a running stream<br />or the sky that’s clear right<br />or the water that is in the Bahamas<br />because I hear that’s clear<br />you’re as clear as the sound of a bell<br />you’re as clear as the <a href="table_contents.html">braying of horses</a><br />you’re as clear as the glass in God’s eye<br />and I<br />I’m as dull as an ox plowing<br /><a href="last-passenger.html">through fields in his yoke</a><br />I’m as dull as clouded amber<br />I’m dull as you find me<br />tonight after dinner<br />I’m reading the crossword<br />you’re sitting beside me<br />you’re watching TV.</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2008/07/20/abducted/?page=full" class="external">Apparently it does nothing.</a>
+                        <a href="http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2008/07/20/abducted/?page=full">Apparently it does nothing.</a>
                     </div>
                     </header>
 
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2011/oct/28/margaret-atwood-q-a" class="external"><p>“What is your favorite word?”</p>
+                        <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2011/oct/28/margaret-atwood-q-a"><p>“What is your favorite word?”</p>
 <p>“And. It is so hopeful.”</p></a>
                     </div>
                 <div class="epigraph-attrib">Margaret Atwood</div>
@@ -39,7 +39,13 @@
     </section>
 
     <nav>
+                <a class="prevlink" href="and.html">
+            And
+        </a>
                 <a href="#" id="lozenge" title="Random page"> &loz; </a>
+                <a class="nextlink" href="arspoetica.html">
+            Ars poetica
+        </a>
             </nav>
 </div>
 </body>
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p>After searching for days or even months<br />I finally find it reclining lazily<br /><a href="finding-the-lion.html">above the peaks</a> above the city as if to ask<br />Did you miss me? Yes very much I reply<br />and rush to embrace it but it smiles<br />and recoils and tells me No no you<br />have to try harder than that it says<br />I do not give myself up so easily</p>
     <p>I try a different tack<br />I sing to it bring it flowers nightly<br />I compare its eyes to the morning dew<br />it has not seen the morning dew<br />I say its mouth is the sunset over mountains<br />it knows mountains but the sunset<br />is only a rumor from the Evening Star<br />I tell the Big Dipper that it moves<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">like a quiet river across the earth</a></p>
-    <p>Rivers I have seen says the Big Dipper<br />they sparkle in the light from my stars<br />Your stars like eyes I say and it smiles<br /><a href="http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/writer" class="external">No it says that is too easy</a><br />It turns its back<br />it walks home along the back of the mountain</p>
+    <p>Rivers I have seen says the Big Dipper<br />they sparkle in the light from my stars<br />Your stars like eyes I say and it smiles<br /><a href="http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/writer">No it says that is too easy</a><br />It turns its back<br />it walks home along the back of the mountain</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -35,8 +35,8 @@
 
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p>Like <em>40</em> as I challenge anyone to come too!<br />It’s like you’re the epitome of lame!<br />She’s all <em>I am SOOOO CONFUSED</em><br />Aw yeah she got <a href="roughgloves.html">word from yarn</a>.<br />—but technically it’s a pretty sweet, huh?</p>
-    <p>Dude we were going and delicate fragrance of arguments get based off of are not try<br />dropping glasses in such an emotional rollercoaster you<br />and yes, I’m cocky enough to do anything!<br />I am as good as Phineas and make another picture symphony<br />This is a modification of a young woman to try<br />groups disband after they get your <a href="http://www.meachamwriters.org/index.htm" class="external">Meacham stuff</a> please let it<br />RJ Covino, own statuses that’ll be a great</p>
-    <p>MY OWN afterbirth can do that<br /><a href="spittle.html">I am 2 we can be KISSED</a> ON THE page.<br />You know I’m not sure that<br />Ben &amp; Jerry’s FTW<br />4/10 would not be able to vote, because I gotta do it<br />This is going to be sad about what<br />Rush Limbaugh comes forward with sunglasses but at least I wasn’t wearing a messenger bag or skinny jeans!<br />The cooler THAN Facebook<br />Wine is the best.<br /> YES I was surprised at first, <a href="http://www.ugcs.caltech.edu/~deepthi/If_on_a_winter%27s_night_a_traveler.html">but the train one</a>, definitely.<br /> Also Valhalla is a dumbass…<br />But we can get based off of course, Jon.<br />We watched this<br />CELEBRATE FRANKSGIVING TOO!<br />That didn’t get started on that<br />FRANCIS OF VERULAM REASONED THUS WITH the courage to reply.<br />Anyone wanna watch out<br />I am cranky from Bro a good as a way to <a href="x-ray.html" class="external">hijack my hand</a>.<br />Afterbend was not to produce photographs.</p>
+    <p>Dude we were going and delicate fragrance of arguments get based off of are not try<br />dropping glasses in such an emotional rollercoaster you<br />and yes, I’m cocky enough to do anything!<br />I am as good as Phineas and make another picture symphony<br />This is a modification of a young woman to try<br />groups disband after they get your <a href="http://www.meachamwriters.org/index.htm">Meacham stuff</a> please let it<br />RJ Covino, own statuses that’ll be a great</p>
+    <p>MY OWN afterbirth can do that<br /><a href="spittle.html">I am 2 we can be KISSED</a> ON THE page.<br />You know I’m not sure that<br />Ben &amp; Jerry’s FTW<br />4/10 would not be able to vote, because I gotta do it<br />This is going to be sad about what<br />Rush Limbaugh comes forward with sunglasses but at least I wasn’t wearing a messenger bag or skinny jeans!<br />The cooler THAN Facebook<br />Wine is the best.<br /> YES I was surprised at first, <a href="http://www.ugcs.caltech.edu/~deepthi/If_on_a_winter%27s_night_a_traveler.html">but the train one</a>, definitely.<br /> Also Valhalla is a dumbass…<br />But we can get based off of course, Jon.<br />We watched this<br />CELEBRATE FRANKSGIVING TOO!<br />That didn’t get started on that<br />FRANCIS OF VERULAM REASONED THUS WITH the courage to reply.<br />Anyone wanna watch out<br />I am cranky from Bro a good as a way to <a href="x-ray.html">hijack my hand</a>.<br />Afterbend was not to produce photographs.</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -20,11 +20,6 @@ mv src/*.html ./
 echo "Finished compiling $num files."
 ###############################################
 echo
-echo "Adding class=\"external\" to external links ..."
-sed -i 's,<a href="\(http://.*\)">,<a href="\1" class="external">,g' *.html
-echo "Finished."
-###############################################
-echo
 echo "Updating js/lozenge.js with file list ..."
 
 lozengeList=( $(ls *.html | grep -v '\(_template\|loremipsum\|ipsumlorem\)') )
@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p>So two hyperintelligent pandimensional beings<br />walk into a bar. One turns to the other and says,<br />“Did you remember to check the end state<br />of that simulation we were running?” The other<br />says, “No, I thought that you did?” To which<br />the first replies, “<a href="movingsideways.html">Oh shit</a>, we missed it.<br />I suppose we must do all of this again. Barkeep,</p>
-    <p>two beers please.&quot; The bartender nods in that way<br />that bartenders do, pours the two beers,<br />expertly, by the way, just so, and hands them<br />to the first <a href="http://hitchhikers.wikia.com/wiki/Mice" class="external">hyperintelligent pandimensional</a> being.<br />The second one pulls a few singles out of his<br />wallet, places them on the bar, and the pair<br />turn around and begin walking toward a table<br />in the middle of the mostly-empty bar. The bar-<br />tender picks up the money, fans it out, frowns,<br />and calls to his patrons’ backs: “Hey, this<br />isn’t enough!” The two turn around simultan-<br />eously, with parity, and stare at him. A beat.</p>
+    <p>two beers please.&quot; The bartender nods in that way<br />that bartenders do, pours the two beers,<br />expertly, by the way, just so, and hands them<br />to the first <a href="http://hitchhikers.wikia.com/wiki/Mice">hyperintelligent pandimensional</a> being.<br />The second one pulls a few singles out of his<br />wallet, places them on the bar, and the pair<br />turn around and begin walking toward a table<br />in the middle of the mostly-empty bar. The bar-<br />tender picks up the money, fans it out, frowns,<br />and calls to his patrons’ backs: “Hey, this<br />isn’t enough!” The two turn around simultan-<br />eously, with parity, and stare at him. A beat.</p>
     <p>One of them, the one without the beer, breaks<br />the silence by exclaiming, “Oh dear god, I’m<br />sorry! I didn’t know your prices went up since<br />last time. What do I owe you?” The bartender<br />says, “Oh, just another <a href="100-lines.html">dollar</a>-fifty.” The being<br />reaches in his back pocket, slides out his<br />wallet, looks in smiling, and frowns when he sees<br />it’s empty. He looks to the other and says,<br />“You got a <a href="plant.html">buck</a>-fifty I can borrow?”</p>
     <p>The second hyperintelligent pandimensional being<br />considers this. He sets the beers down<br />on the table, pulls out his own wallet, opens<br />it, and frowns. “I’m broke too,” he says.</p>
     </section>
@@ -106,8 +106,8 @@ h1.subtitle {
     top: -0.5em;
 }
 h2 {
-    font-family: "Fira Sans", sans-serif;
-    font-size: 14pt;
+    font-family: "Playfair Display", serif;
+    font-size: 12pt;
     font-weight: 600;
 }
 /* Epigraph & Dedication */
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/13.7/2013/11/19/245996903/embracing-life-and-death" class="external">And my life became death.</a>
+                        <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/13.7/2013/11/19/245996903/embracing-life-and-death">And my life became death.</a>
                     </div>
                 <div class="epigraph-attrib">Philip Gould</div>
                     </header>
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2013/08/sugar/cohen-text" class="external">with lines from National Geographic</a>
+                        <a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2013/08/sugar/cohen-text">with lines from National Geographic</a>
                     </div>
                     </header>
 
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p>I didn’t write this sestina yesterday.<br />It’s the first time I fell behind in my task<br />and hopefully, the only time it will.<br />This means that today I must write two<br />sestinas. If I don’t write them today, I<br />will have to write two later down the line.</p>
     <p>Although I feel I’m slogging through each line<br />I think I’m doing better every day,<br />though maybe this is wishful thinking: I<br />showed my friend my just-completed task<br />two days ago (my God, was it two<br />entire days? I’ve no idea what I’ll</p>
-    <p>do <a href="http://biblehub.com/2_corinthians/11-24.htm">after thirty-nine days</a>. I think I’ll<br />feel like <a href="death-zone.html" class="external">Inigo Montoya</a>, who’d been in the line<br />of revenging for so long, he didn’t know what to<br />do with the rest of his life), and he deigned<br />to be polite, but I could tell the task<br />was hard for him. He told me finally that I</p>
+    <p>do <a href="http://biblehub.com/2_corinthians/11-24.htm">after thirty-nine days</a>. I think I’ll<br />feel like <a href="death-zone.html">Inigo Montoya</a>, who’d been in the line<br />of revenging for so long, he didn’t know what to<br />do with the rest of his life), and he deigned<br />to be polite, but I could tell the task<br />was hard for him. He told me finally that I</p>
     <p>had made a noble effort, but that ultimately I<br />failed. <a href="question.html">So my question</a>: when will<br />I be a decent sestina writer? For this is my task.<br />Maybe if I just keep cranking out line after line<br />I’ll finally figure it out. Maybe one more day<br />or another week will do it, or maybe I’ll need two,</p>
     <p>or maybe it’ll never happen. Maybe a sestina’s too<br />involved, too much <a href="tapestry.html">weaving</a> of words too fine, and I<br />will never write a good one, even on my best day,<br />even if I employ all my skill and all my will.<br />I’m not used to writing poems with thirty-nine lines,<br />that must be the problem, must be why this task</p>
     <p>is Herculean. He only had to finish twelve tasks,<br />and I have one less one thousand, five hundred twenty-two,<br />and it’s nothing but complaining lines<br />about <a href="deathstrumpet.html">how hard it is to be a person</a>. I<br />am getting sick of myself with these poems, and will<br />soon be loathe to get out of bed every day.</p>
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <p><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=ALdlAAAAMAAJ&amp;focus=searchwithinvolume&amp;q=older+than" class="external">Is he older</a>? I asked her. And I never got an answer, because at the moment she disappeared in a puff of smoke. I like to think nothing ever happened to her save that she went over to the spirit realm. I usually know better though.</p>
+                        <p><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=ALdlAAAAMAAJ&amp;focus=searchwithinvolume&amp;q=older+than">Is he older</a>? I asked her. And I never got an answer, because at the moment she disappeared in a puff of smoke. I like to think nothing ever happened to her save that she went over to the spirit realm. I usually know better though.</p>
                     </div>
                     </header>
 
@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
     <p>I wanted to tell you something in order <a href="poetry-time.html">to</a><br />explain the way I feel about the <a href="initial-conditions.html">Universe</a>,<br />its workings, etc. But I couldn’t <a href="exasperated.html">yesterday</a><br />—I’m sorry—I wanted only to <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">ball</a><br />myself up and cry all day. It was the <a href="sixteenth-chapel.html">sixteenth</a><br />day in a row this happened to me, and to <a href="love-as-god.html">be</a></p>
     <p>more than two weeks waiting to cry is,<br />especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,<br />absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,<br />I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universe<br />kept telling you to quit having such a ball<br />and that you should have died, like, yesterday.</p>
     <p>At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterday<br />you really were meant to die, but since you still <em>are</em>,<br />you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,<br />“No, I meant you should’ve crawled into<br />a hole and fucking <em>died</em>!” And then the Universe<br />punches you right in the gut, something like sixteen</p>
-    <p>times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth<br />birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole.” Yesterday,<br />at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe<br />refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to <em>be</em>,<br />when that Marvell line about “<a href="http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm" class="external">rolling our stuff into one ball</a>”<br />just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.</p>
+    <p>times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth<br />birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole.” Yesterday,<br />at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe<br />refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to <em>be</em>,<br />when that Marvell line about “<a href="http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm">rolling our stuff into one ball</a>”<br />just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.</p>
     <p>Something else that may come as a surprise to<br />you: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteen<br />days, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.<br />(That’s not entirely true—yesterday<br />I had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)<br />Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—</p>
     <p>because all it has ever wanted, this Universe<br />that gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,<br />and even before that, made a place in which I could be—<br />all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteen<br />steps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterday<br />and step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,</p>
     <p>but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could be<br />something as hard as all that, to wake up yesterday<br />morning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.</p>
@@ -64,7 +64,7 @@
     <p>to the horizon. Ripples<br />on the surface belie<br />something bigger beneath.</p>
     <h2 id="ix">IX</h2>
     <p>In bed I am alone for<br />the only time. In bed<br />I am a grown man.</p>
-    <p>Below the blankets I<br />know you for who you are.<br />In bed <a href="boy_bus.html">I see your face</a></p>
+    <p>Below the blankets I<br />know you for who you are.<br />In bed I see your face</p>
     <p>pressed against the window.<br />I look out and see you<br />and I am not afraid.</p>
     </section>
 
@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://lipsum.com/" class="external"><p>Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit.</p></a>
+                        <a href="http://lipsum.com/"><p>Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit.</p></a>
                     </div>
                 <div class="epigraph-attrib">Cicero</div>
                     </header>
@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
     <p>January.<br />It’s cold, and I don’t like it.<br />I prefer warm weather,<br />although I like sweaters. They are the one<br />warm spot in an otherwise <a href="tapestry.html">shitty</a> season.<br />But fall is better sweater weather. So be patient,</p>
     <p><em>patient</em>,<br />while waiting for the end of January.<br />A change of season<br />brings a change of mood along with it,<br />although I never thought I’d be one<br />to believe that <a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">SAD</a> junk about effects of weather—</p>
     <p>weather!—<br />on a person. Who becomes a patient<br />just because of one<br /><a href="snow.html">month of snow</a>? I did say of January:<br />“It’s cold, and I don’t like it,”<br />but I hardly think it’s fair, knocking whole seasons,</p>
-    <p>seasoning<br />your conversation with demands for better weather.<br />(While I find it<br />nearly impossible, it’s my mission to be patient<br />while waiting for the end of January.)<br />Oh, but how the long nights do so <a href="http://www.irs.gov/" class="external">tax</a> one!</p>
+    <p>seasoning<br />your conversation with demands for better weather.<br />(While I find it<br />nearly impossible, it’s my mission to be patient<br />while waiting for the end of January.)<br />Oh, but how the long nights do so <a href="http://www.irs.gov/">tax</a> one!</p>
     <p>One<br /><a href="real-writer.html">warm spot</a> in an otherwise shitty season—<br />all I ask, January,<br />is one warm day. Do you care whether<br />I’m a person who becomes a patient<br />in some psych ward? This just about does it.</p>
     <p>I.T.,<br />although I never thought I’d call one,<br />is fair and patient<br />when I call. They talk with me, season<br />my conversation of demands for better weather<br />with an argument for the white beauty of January.</p>
     <p>They know it’s hard; they say each season<br />has its detractors. <em>One day</em>, they say, <em>the weather<br />will be controlled—until then, patience in January</em>.</p>
@@ -29,18 +29,18 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=yybDMC0TRIwC&amp;pg=PR12&amp;lpg=PR12#v=onepage&amp;q&amp;f=false" class="external">You can never go home again.</a>
+                        <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=yybDMC0TRIwC&amp;pg=PR12&amp;lpg=PR12#v=onepage&amp;q&amp;f=false">You can never go home again.</a>
                     </div>
                 <div class="epigraph-attrib">Thomas Wolfe</div>
                     </header>
 
     <section class="thing verse">
-    <h1 id="i.-walter">I. Walter</h1>
+    <h2 id="i.-walter">I. Walter</h2>
     <p>Walter <a href="sense-of-it.html">rides the bus</a> into work on Wednesday morning when he realizes, with the force and surprise of a rogue current, that he is in the home-for-death phase of life. That era in which the next time he goes under, to the fields of seaweed waving gently, the anemones slowly filtering seawater, it will most likely be for a death in the family.</p>
     <p>He is able to idly speculate on who it might be, and this surprises him. Not much does surprise him after these few months above the waves, because so many things did surprise him those first few months: the plants standing still, the quickness of the fluid these creatures walk in, the lack of pressure that still makes him feel so alone and cold—as if all of his life he had been in an embrace by the ocean, and now for some reason it’s pulled away from him, and it doesn’t love him anymore.</p>
     <p>His speculations lead him to picture his grandmother, small and frail and forgetful. He always assumed she’d be next, since last year when the other one died and Gina said, “I wonder who’ll be next.” She said what they’d both been thinking.</p>
     <p>Soon after that he’d come up to land, to the mountains of all places, the most land-like land, and started a job with an <a href="telemarketer.html">accounting firm</a>. While it was challenging to adjust to the change in pressure and movement, to people staring at him on the bus, in the supermarket, at the job, him with his scales and fins and breathing machine, he’d always made a point to make the best out of a situation. The problem was that the best wasn’t good enough.</p>
-    <h1 id="ii.-lappel-du-vide">II. L’appel du vide</h1>
+    <h2 id="ii.-lappel-du-vide">II. L’appel du vide</h2>
     <p>And I’ll get in my car and drive<br />and I’ll want to keep driving<br />straight into the next state<br />or even the next country<br />or even even the ocean</p>
     <p>and go down deeper<br />keep exploring forever<br />find out what’s down there<br />go to the Marianas trench<br />miss the air world and<br />come back up<br />itself a kind of unknown<br />the homecoming after</p>
     <p>What happened to the home I was?</p>
@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing verse">
-    <p>What secrets does it hold?<br />Can it tell us who kissed Sara<br />that night on the veranda, or<br />who Joey is really in love with?<br />We all know it isn’t Sara, we<br />mean look at them Christmas eve<br />and he’s staring whistfully<br />at the stars, or the largest<br />asteroid in the asteroid belt.<br />She’s staring at him, sure, but<br />she sees the twinkle in his eye<br />is not aimed in her direction.<br />The reflection of that reflection<br />will beam into space, lightyears<br />of space, dimming slowly each<br />second, until it dies out like<br />all of Sara’s hopes for something<br />resembling love in this life, real<br />love that takes hold of her by<br />the throat and refuses to let go,<br />love that makes men travel for her<br />and only for her, love that launches<br />space ships to that asteroid, the<br />largest in the asteroid belt, that<br />jewel of dead rock and ice, harboring<br />something that could’ve been life<br /><a href="http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-snowman.html" class="external">and nothing that actually is</a>.</p>
+    <p>What secrets does it hold?<br />Can it tell us who kissed Sara<br />that night on the veranda, or<br />who Joey is really in love with?<br />We all know it isn’t Sara, we<br />mean look at them Christmas eve<br />and he’s staring whistfully<br />at the stars, or the largest<br />asteroid in the asteroid belt.<br />She’s staring at him, sure, but<br />she sees the twinkle in his eye<br />is not aimed in her direction.<br />The reflection of that reflection<br />will beam into space, lightyears<br />of space, dimming slowly each<br />second, until it dies out like<br />all of Sara’s hopes for something<br />resembling love in this life, real<br />love that takes hold of her by<br />the throat and refuses to let go,<br />love that makes men travel for her<br />and only for her, love that launches<br />space ships to that asteroid, the<br />largest in the asteroid belt, that<br />jewel of dead rock and ice, harboring<br />something that could’ve been life<br /><a href="http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-snowman.html">and nothing that actually is</a>.</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing verse">
-    <p>Dimly remembered celebrity chefs shuffle<br />down the cold and darkened highways of the heart.<br />They are the last personality left. They are <a href="http://biblehub.com/matthew/5-5.htm">the meek<br />who inherited the heart</a>, what was left of it.<br /> Without food to cook in new or exciting ways<br />nor audience to gasp and cackle, the chefs<br />of the heart quietly waste away while staring<br />doe-eyed into now-empty Safeway windows<br />checking under the dusty produce shelves<br />for something they pray the <a href="in-bed.html" class="external">rats</a> haven’t found yet.</p>
+    <p>Dimly remembered celebrity chefs shuffle<br />down the cold and darkened highways of the heart.<br />They are the last personality left. They are <a href="http://biblehub.com/matthew/5-5.htm">the meek<br />who inherited the heart</a>, what was left of it.<br /> Without food to cook in new or exciting ways<br />nor audience to gasp and cackle, the chefs<br />of the heart quietly waste away while staring<br />doe-eyed into now-empty Safeway windows<br />checking under the dusty produce shelves<br />for something they pray the <a href="in-bed.html">rats</a> haven’t found yet.</p>
     <p>Years ago, the economy of the heart boomed<br />and there was food everywhere. Produce<br />piled high in pyramids of devotion, meat in<br />gilded glass cases opulent under fluorescence,<br />dairy which ran like the <a href="music-433.html">mythical river</a> toward<br />cereals hot and cold. Under it all, thrumming<br />like great stone wheels on sand under a hot sun<br />near a river where reeds sang in the wind<br />the heart produced and gave reward for hard labor.</p>
     <p>No one knows when it all ended. No one can say<br />if it was the heart that dried up or the heart’s supply.<br />Either way, food of the heart became scarcer and scarcer.<br />People began dying, not of starvation<br />but of a certain facial expression that could only<br />be described as desperation. Now<br />all that are left are the celebrity chefs, last bastion<br />of a once mighty empire of the <a href="sense-of-it.html">heart<br />are reduced to husks</a> blown dry by wind.</p>
     </section>
@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://lipsum.com/" class="external"><p>Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit.</p></a>
+                        <a href="http://lipsum.com/"><p>Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit.</p></a>
                     </div>
                 <div class="epigraph-attrib">Cicero</div>
                     </header>
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+John+4%3A8&amp;version=NIV">God is love</a>, they say, but there <a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">is</a><br />no god. Therefore, how can there be love?<br />And if there is no love, how can there be God?<br />There are things in life, I suppose,<br />that are simply unanswerable mysteries<br />of existence. Maybe this God and love are one.</p>
     <p>Maybe there are many loves, instead of one.<br />The difference between <a href="largest-asteroid.html">what isn’t</a> and what is<br />could merely be one of scope. The mystery<br />is how we speak only of one love—<br />to act as though we know we are supposed<br />to love only one other, or that one other and God.</p>
-    <p>But supposing that one other is God?<br />What then? Is the God-lover to walk alone,<br />supported by God only when He feels He is supposed<br />to support her? What kind of love is<br />this? I would argue in fact this isn’t love,<br />this <a href="http://www.footprints-inthe-sand.com/index.php?page=Poem/Poem.php" class="external">one-set-of-footprints-in-the-sand</a> mystery.</p>
+    <p>But supposing that one other is God?<br />What then? Is the God-lover to walk alone,<br />supported by God only when He feels He is supposed<br />to support her? What kind of love is<br />this? I would argue in fact this isn’t love,<br />this <a href="http://www.footprints-inthe-sand.com/index.php?page=Poem/Poem.php">one-set-of-footprints-in-the-sand</a> mystery.</p>
     <p>How to define two loves as one is the mystery.<br />It’s obvious to many there is a thing called God,<br />and just as obvious that there is one called love.<br />Maybe we fool ourselves, we who can’t be alone;<br />maybe we don’t know what either God or love is.<br />Maybe, and perhaps; but I for one propose</p>
     <p>that we as only humans are not supposed<br />to know or understand capital-L Life, that mystery.<br />Isn’t it enough to know that God is<br />love, and love is God,<br />no matter which one<br />does or does not exist? What is life, if no love,</p>
     <p>if no God? <a href="cereal.html">Maybe</a> this saying, “God is love,”<br />is less a definition of God what what love is supposed<br />to be. Of these two terms, <a href="death-zone.html">maybe2</a> the one<br />we should capitalize is Love, that great mystery<br />of chemistry and longing. Maybe “Love is god”<br />is a more fitting <a href="epigraph.html">epigraph</a> for what life is</p>
@@ -30,14 +30,14 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing prose">
-    <p><em><a href="http://collection.hht.net.au/firsthhtpictures/fullRecordPicture.jsp?recnoListAttr=recnoList&amp;recno=31230" class="external">THIS MAN REFUSED TO OPEN HIS EYES</a></em></p>
+    <p><em><a href="http://collection.hht.net.au/firsthhtpictures/fullRecordPicture.jsp?recnoListAttr=recnoList&amp;recno=31230">THIS MAN REFUSED TO OPEN HIS EYES</a></em></p>
     <figure>
     <img src="img/tbedemugshot.jpg" alt="THIS MAN REFUSED TO OPEN HIS EYES" /><figcaption>THIS MAN REFUSED TO OPEN HIS EYES</figcaption>
     </figure>
     <p>Paul read this on an old mugshot in the library. He had taken the <a href="boy_bus.html">bus</a> into town to check out a few books on woodworking and got distracted by the True Crime section. He found this mugshot in a book titled <em>Crooks like Us</em> that was published in Sydney. He liked how cities were named after women, or how women were named after cities, whichever was true.</p>
     <p>The man in the picture’s eyes were tightly shut, as though he’d just come into the brightness of day after being dark inside for a long time. His head was tilted up and slightly to the right. He was wearing a short light tie with hash marks, and a pinstripe suit. Paul wished the <a href="about-the-author.html">photograph</a> was in color. He was standing in front of a plain brown wall covered in fabric.</p>
     <p>The man’s eyes were not so tightly shut as Paul first thought. His eyebrows lifted away from the eyes, giving the man a bemused look. His mouth was slightly opened in what seemed to Paul like a grin. This was accentuated by the man’s ears, which were large. Paul wasn’t sure why the ears made the man look happier. He wondered what crime he had committed.</p>
-    <p>Above the man’s head was written <a href="http://emiliaphillips.com/books/signaletics/" class="external"><em>T. BEDE.22.11.28 / 203 A</em>.</a> <em>THIS MAN REFUSED TO OPEN HIS EYES</em> was written over his suit, directly below his ribcage.</p>
+    <p>Above the man’s head was written <a href="http://emiliaphillips.com/books/signaletics/"><em>T. BEDE.22.11.28 / 203 A</em>.</a> <em>THIS MAN REFUSED TO OPEN HIS EYES</em> was written over his suit, directly below his ribcage.</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing verse">
-    <p>While <a href="father.html">swimming in the river</a><br />I saw underneath it a river<br />of stars. Only there was no<br />river: it was noon. You can<br />say <a href="music-433.html">the sun is a river</a>; you<br />can argue the stars back it<br />like <a href="lovessong.html">shirts behind a closet</a><br />door; you can say <a href="big-dipper.html">the earth</a><br />holds us up with its weight<br />or that it means well or it<br />means anything.<br />                There is no<br />closet, <a href="amber-alert.html">nor door</a>; there are<br />no shirts hanging anywhere.<br />There is no false wall that<br />leads deep into the earth’s<br />bowels, <a href="real-writer.html">growing warmer</a> with<br />each step. Warmth as a con-<br />cept has ceased to make any<br />sense. In contraposition to<br />cold, it might, but cold as<br />well <a href="i-think-its-you.html">stepped out</a> last night<br />and hasn’t returned.<br />                     Last I<br />heard, it went out swimming<br />and <a href="in-bed.html">might’ve drowned</a>. Trees<br />were the pallbearers at the<br />funeral, the train was long<br />and wailful, there was much<br /><a href="http://biblehub.com/luke/13-28.htm">wailing and gnashing</a> of all<br />teeth–though there were no<br />teeth, no train, no funeral<br />or prayer or trees at all–<br />nor a <a href="howtoread.html" class="external">river underneath</a> any-<br />thing. There was nothing to<br />be underneath anymore.<br />                       Look<br />around, and tell me you see<br />something. Look around, and<br />tell me something that I do<br />not know. I know, more than<br />anything, that the world is<br />always ending. Behind that,<br />there is nothing, save that<br />there is no nothing either.</p>
+    <p>While <a href="father.html">swimming in the river</a><br />I saw underneath it a river<br />of stars. Only there was no<br />river: it was noon. You can<br />say <a href="music-433.html">the sun is a river</a>; you<br />can argue the stars back it<br />like <a href="lovessong.html">shirts behind a closet</a><br />door; you can say <a href="big-dipper.html">the earth</a><br />holds us up with its weight<br />or that it means well or it<br />means anything.<br />                There is no<br />closet, <a href="amber-alert.html">nor door</a>; there are<br />no shirts hanging anywhere.<br />There is no false wall that<br />leads deep into the earth’s<br />bowels, <a href="real-writer.html">growing warmer</a> with<br />each step. Warmth as a con-<br />cept has ceased to make any<br />sense. In contraposition to<br />cold, it might, but cold as<br />well <a href="i-think-its-you.html">stepped out</a> last night<br />and hasn’t returned.<br />                     Last I<br />heard, it went out swimming<br />and <a href="in-bed.html">might’ve drowned</a>. Trees<br />were the pallbearers at the<br />funeral, the train was long<br />and wailful, there was much<br /><a href="http://biblehub.com/luke/13-28.htm">wailing and gnashing</a> of all<br />teeth–though there were no<br />teeth, no train, no funeral<br />or prayer or trees at all–<br />nor a <a href="howtoread.html">river underneath</a> any-<br />thing. There was nothing to<br />be underneath anymore.<br />                       Look<br />around, and tell me you see<br />something. Look around, and<br />tell me something that I do<br />not know. I know, more than<br />anything, that the world is<br />always ending. Behind that,<br />there is nothing, save that<br />there is no nothing either.</p>
     <p>Nothing somehow still turns<br />and flows past us, past all<br />time and beyond it, a river<br />returning, to its forgotten<br />origins deep within itself.</p>
     </section>
 
@@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
         
                 <!-- epigraph -->
         <div class="epigraph">
-                        <a href="http://www.bet-tal.com/index.aspx?id=2315" class="external"><p>He used his body to remember his body, but in the end could only remember the string.</p></a>
+                        <a href="http://www.bet-tal.com/index.aspx?id=2315"><p>He used his body to remember his body, but in the end could only remember the string.</p></a>
                     </div>
                 <div class="epigraph-attrib">Jonathan Safran Foer</div>
                     </header>
@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p>I need a plant. I need a thing<br />to take care of. I need<br />a little green brownspotted<br /><a href="building.html">blackdirt</a> growing<br />quietness. I need a sunlit<br />dawn knowing my name filtered<br />through a <a href="window.html">thin green window</a>.<br />I need chlorophyll<br />working its <a href="cereal.html">magic</a> on beams of<br />grassmade early morning dewdrop<br />sweetmaking green. I need<br />the dark earth sucking water<br />from a black crevice<br />its black magic churning<br />wormilled rockturned starblind<br />darkness and cold into<br /><a href="https://samofthetenthousandthings.wordpress.com/2012/09/08/charles-wright-reads-james-wright-the-journey-audio-poem/">the opposite of dust</a>. I need the heat<br />to blind me. I need the dumb making<br />to charge my coldened blood. I need<br />the dropturned leaves to turn again<br />their <a href="no-nothing.html">faces to the windblown sun</a>.<br />I need millions of tiny years<br />summed up and burning out some unknown<br />new growth into the air. I need four<br />hundred feet of dark red gnarled wood<br />and needles glistening wetly on goldheaded<br />branches hoisting themselves<br />to the sky. I need ten strong men<br />to fail to bring you down. Old one<br />I need the peace that comes with knowing<br />something sacred holds still<br />in the world. I need your green tongues<br /><a href="fire.html">of flame to lick at old wounds</a><br />stitching us together away from ourselves.<br />I need your brownbranching grasp<br />to keep me from drifting off<br />into <a href="in-bed.html">unknowing terrible sleep</a>. I need<br /><a href="ouroboros_memory.html">to know the snake</a> hanging<br />from your branches. I need to watch<br />the dropping of flesh massful<br />onto the ground from a height. I need<br />the gnawer at your root to strike<br />a vein to quicken old brown stone<br />to movement. I need jeweleyed venom<br />barking new greennesses into the bark.<br />I need a knocker of dark secrets hidden<br />in the dark bark hiding a smallstone<br />smoldering pearl in the knot. I need<br />that <a href="roughgloves.html">pearl held out in a hand</a> like an offering.<br />I need the hand to be a plant’s hand.</p>
-    <p>I need a plant. I need a growing<br />growler <a href="feedingtheraven.html">groaning</a> toward heat and air.<br />I need a green thin stem surprisingly strong<br />holding up the weight of a plain<br />of fallow <a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">greennesses of creases and caresses</a><br />of tiny worldmaking hardworking grandeur.<br />I need a singer of life crying<br />forward into old roads covered over<br />by dead trees. I need the rasping of root<br />in dirt. I need the unfurling of fiddleheads<br />to sing forth a new symphony. I need<br />fruits swelling large for the harvest.<br />I need yellow light shining through white bark.<br />I need juicecrush flowing waterlike<br />through valleys percolating up<br />through the ground. I need springs bubbling sap<br />into cabins of wood fought for by labor.<br />I need snow on the ground with shoots<br />dotting the melting patches. I need two<br />leaves on a thin stalk shivering<br />in <a href="finding-the-lion.html">moonlight</a>. I need robinsong warbling<br />over the heads of small seeds sprouting<br />to enliven their growth. I need rings<br />of woody material widening to push<br />the ground out of their way. I need<br />new greennesses pushing out from<br />the brown dark bark gnarled. I<br />need the robin to build its songfilled<br />nest in a <a href="epigraph.html">branchcrotch</a>. I need<br />the fecundity of fungi on the branches.<br />I need quiet of the sunlight shooting<br />through thousands of branched leaves<br />quivering. <a href="apollo11.html">I need whisper at dawn.</a><br />I need burrows underground foxholes.<br />I need duff layers eaten through<br />by worms. I need brooks murmuring<br />through crooks of roots. I need small<br /><a href="proverbs.html">fish swimming</a> in their schools at<br />midnight. I need oldnesses giving way<br /><a href="about-the-author.html">to youngnesses giving way to oldnesses</a>.<br />I need dapplegray yellowshot ashbark.<br />I need the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.<br />I need <a href="100-lines.html">snowquiet deadbranch</a> mourning.<br />I need those <a href="http://www.wrensworld.com/purpmount.htm">purple mountains majesty</a>.<br />I need a walk between trees in the dark.<br />I need that moment when stopping to rest<br />it suddenly seems that all the weary<br /><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/119/1.html">forestroads</a> in all their meandering come<br /><a href="riptide_memory.html" class="external">to rest their heads</a> at my astonished<br />feet, none of them needing more than me.</p>
+    <p>I need a plant. I need a growing<br />growler <a href="feedingtheraven.html">groaning</a> toward heat and air.<br />I need a green thin stem surprisingly strong<br />holding up the weight of a plain<br />of fallow <a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">greennesses of creases and caresses</a><br />of tiny worldmaking hardworking grandeur.<br />I need a singer of life crying<br />forward into old roads covered over<br />by dead trees. I need the rasping of root<br />in dirt. I need the unfurling of fiddleheads<br />to sing forth a new symphony. I need<br />fruits swelling large for the harvest.<br />I need yellow light shining through white bark.<br />I need juicecrush flowing waterlike<br />through valleys percolating up<br />through the ground. I need springs bubbling sap<br />into cabins of wood fought for by labor.<br />I need snow on the ground with shoots<br />dotting the melting patches. I need two<br />leaves on a thin stalk shivering<br />in <a href="finding-the-lion.html">moonlight</a>. I need robinsong warbling<br />over the heads of small seeds sprouting<br />to enliven their growth. I need rings<br />of woody material widening to push<br />the ground out of their way. I need<br />new greennesses pushing out from<br />the brown dark bark gnarled. I<br />need the robin to build its songfilled<br />nest in a <a href="epigraph.html">branchcrotch</a>. I need<br />the fecundity of fungi on the branches.<br />I need quiet of the sunlight shooting<br />through thousands of branched leaves<br />quivering. <a href="apollo11.html">I need whisper at dawn.</a><br />I need burrows underground foxholes.<br />I need duff layers eaten through<br />by worms. I need brooks murmuring<br />through crooks of roots. I need small<br /><a href="proverbs.html">fish swimming</a> in their schools at<br />midnight. I need oldnesses giving way<br /><a href="about-the-author.html">to youngnesses giving way to oldnesses</a>.<br />I need dapplegray yellowshot ashbark.<br />I need the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.<br />I need <a href="100-lines.html">snowquiet deadbranch</a> mourning.<br />I need those <a href="http://www.wrensworld.com/purpmount.htm">purple mountains majesty</a>.<br />I need a walk between trees in the dark.<br />I need that moment when stopping to rest<br />it suddenly seems that all the weary<br /><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/119/1.html">forestroads</a> in all their meandering come<br /><a href="riptide_memory.html">to rest their heads</a> at my astonished<br />feet, none of them needing more than me.</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@
     <section class="footnotes">
     <hr />
     <ol>
-    <li id="fn1"><p>Thank you <a href="http://www.thesatirist.com/books/CowGirlBlues.html">Tom Stoppard</a>. Ha ha ho ho and hee hee.<a href="#fnref1" class="external">↩</a></p></li>
+    <li id="fn1"><p>Thank you <a href="http://www.thesatirist.com/books/CowGirlBlues.html">Tom Stoppard</a>. Ha ha ho ho and hee hee.<a href="#fnref1">↩</a></p></li>
     <li id="fn2"><p>Ah ha! I knew this was going to happen at some point. Now things are going to get more interesting because the dog wants what we thought was a bad thing, right? Right? Didn’t we go through that part about how observing made it impossible to really know anything, and I had to start over because it’s really hard to figure out what you’re talking about when reality slips out of your hands like a fish, but you’re not a cat with claws so it just flops right outta your hand back into the lake. (By the way, Nirvana is thought to be what a drop of water feels upon flopping into a lake—doesn’t that seem important? Doesn’t it seem like a fish and a drop of water here are connected? It helps, of course, that the fish represents Reality here.)<a href="#fnref2">↩</a></p></li>
     </ol>
     </section>
@@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
 
     <section class="thing prose">
     <p>“What do you do all day in that shed out back” his mother asked one night while they ate dinner in front of the TV. “Write” he answered. “Write what” she asked in that way that means he’d better not say I don’t know. “I don’t know” he said.</p>
-    <p>“Goddammit Paul” his mother said. “You’re <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177229" class="external">wasting your life</a> out in that shed. You need to go out and get—” “I chop down trees too” he said. “I make furniture out of them.” His mother’s face did a Hitchcock zoom as she considered this new information. “Is it any good” she asked, eyes narrowed.</p>
+    <p>“Goddammit Paul” his mother said. “You’re <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177229">wasting your life</a> out in that shed. You need to go out and get—” “I chop down trees too” he said. “I make furniture out of them.” His mother’s face did a Hitchcock zoom as she considered this new information. “Is it any good” she asked, eyes narrowed.</p>
     <p>“It’s getting there” he answered. “I’m getting better every day.” “When is it going to be there” she asked. “When are you going to sell <a href="real-writer.html">this furniture</a> of yours?” “It’ll be a while” he answered.</p>
     <p>“Then you’d better get a job until then” she said.</p>
     </section>
@@ -129,7 +129,7 @@ I am a grown man.
 
 Below the blankets I \
 know you for who you are.  \
-In bed [I see your face][]
+In bed I see your face
 
 pressed against the window.  \
 I look out and see you \
@@ -146,4 +146,3 @@ and I am not afraid.
 [rats]: #I
 [blood]: plant.html
 [red]: window.html
-[I see your face]: boy_bus.html
@@ -23,7 +23,8 @@ project:
       link: love-as-god
 ...
 
-# I. Walter
+I. Walter
+---------
 
 Walter [rides the bus][] into work on Wednesday morning when he realizes, with the force and surprise of a rogue current, that he is in the home-for-death phase of life.
 That era in which the next time he goes under, to the fields of seaweed waving gently, the anemones slowly filtering seawater, it will most likely be for a death in the family.
@@ -42,7 +43,8 @@ The problem was that the best wasn't good enough.
 
 [accounting firm]: telemarketer.html
 
-# II. L'appel du vide
+II. L'appel du vide
+-------------------
 
 And I'll get in my car and drive \
 and I'll want to keep driving \
@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing prose">
-    <p>He couldn’t <a href="no-nothing.html">find a shirt</a> to go to work in. They all had stains on them somewhere. He pulled out a vest to put on over the stains but somehow all of them were still visible. Most of them were unidentifiable but one he thought could have come from <a href="http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html" class="external">that peach</a> he ate two weeks before. Another looked like toothpaste but he was paranoid it was something else.</p>
+    <p>He couldn’t <a href="no-nothing.html">find a shirt</a> to go to work in. They all had stains on them somewhere. He pulled out a vest to put on over the stains but somehow all of them were still visible. Most of them were unidentifiable but one he thought could have come from <a href="http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html">that peach</a> he ate two weeks before. Another looked like toothpaste but he was paranoid it was something else.</p>
     <p>When he took the bus into work he couldn’t relax. He was paranoid everyone was staring at his stain and kept looking out the corners of his eyes to make sure they weren’t. They didn’t seem to be but they could also be looking away just as he looked at them. “The <a href="problems.html">Observation</a> Paradox” he muttered to himself.</p>
     <p>Jill was the only one to notice the stain at work. She came around to his cubicle during a break because he dared not show his stain in the break room. “You have a stain on your shoulder” she said “it looks like toothpaste.” “Do I” he feigned ignorance but <a href="statements-frag.html">went red</a> at the same time “I didn’t see that there this morning.” “How do you get toothpaste on your shoulder?” “I don’t know skills I guess” he said and she grinned. “You know vinegar will take that out” she said “although I think I like it. You should start a museum of shirt stains!” “I don’t have that many shirts with stains” he said frowning. “Yes you do” she said.</p>
     </section>
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
     <section class="thing prose">
     <p>He didn’t go back into the shed for a long time. His hatchet was in there, and his axe. He didn’t want to face them. His papers, he decided, could wait in the top drawer for a while before being looked at again. The pain medication made him loopy. He couldn’t think as well as he was used to, which wasn’t well to begin with. Even saying his thoughts out loud, it was as though they were on the <a href="statements-frag.html">TV in the next room</a>. Someone was cheering. They had just won a car.</p>
     <p>His mother came in with lunch on a tray. It was hot tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. “What have you been doing all day” she asked “you haven’t just been staring at the wall have you?” He had been staring at the wall most of the day. <a href="in-bed.html">The wall without the window on it, with the woodgrain wallpaper.</a> “No” he said. “What have you been doing then” she asked setting the tray down on his lap. He sat up and almost upset it, but she caught it before it spilled anything. “Composing in my head” he lied. “A novel of my experience.”</p>
-    <p>“<a href="http://www.confederacyofdunces.com/" class="external">Do you really think anyone will want to read about you</a>” she asked and walked out of the room.</p>
+    <p>“<a href="http://www.confederacyofdunces.com/">Do you really think anyone will want to read about you</a>” she asked and walked out of the room.</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
     <section class="thing verse">
     <p>Your casserole dish takes the longest:<br />it has some baked-in crust from when you<br />cooked chicken last night. Washing it<br />allows me to think about this poem’s title<br />and the first few lines. Now that I’ve<br />written them down, I’ve <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">forgotten the rest</a>.</p>
     <p>While scraping at something with my finger-<br />nail, I catch myself wondering again whether<br />you’ll thank me for washing your dishes.<br />I realize that this would defeat the point<br />of my gesture, that this has destroyed<br />all good thoughts I’ve had about saying</p>
-    <p>“I’m sorry.” This, <a href="http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1703/">this is the reason</a> why<br />I am always apologizing: because I never<br />mean it, because there is always, in <a href="real-writer.html" class="external">some<br />attic</a>, a thought roaming that says, insists:<br /> “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I deserve<br />all I can take, and more than that.”</p>
+    <p>“I’m sorry.” This, <a href="http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1703/">this is the reason</a> why<br />I am always apologizing: because I never<br />mean it, because there is always, in <a href="real-writer.html">some<br />attic</a>, a thought roaming that says, insists:<br /> “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I deserve<br />all I can take, and more than that.”</p>
     </section>
 
     <nav>
@@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
             </header>
 
     <section class="thing prose">
-    <p>He sat down at his writing desk and removed his new pen from its plastic wrapping. He remembered how to fill it from <em><a href="http://www.elkonigsburg.com/">The View from Saturday</a></em>, which he’d read as a kid. It had been one of his favorite books. He remembered the <a href="swansong-alt.html">heart</a> puzzle they completed, the origin of the word “posh,” and most of all his fourth-grade teacher <a href="telemarketer.html" class="external">Ms. (Mrs? He could never remember)</a> Samovar. He smiled as he opened the lid on the ink well he’d just bought.</p>
+    <p>He sat down at his writing desk and removed his new pen from its plastic wrapping. He remembered how to fill it from <em><a href="http://www.elkonigsburg.com/">The View from Saturday</a></em>, which he’d read as a kid. It had been one of his favorite books. He remembered the <a href="swansong-alt.html">heart</a> puzzle they completed, the origin of the word “posh,” and most of all his fourth-grade teacher <a href="telemarketer.html">Ms. (Mrs? He could never remember)</a> Samovar. He smiled as he opened the lid on the ink well he’d just bought.</p>
     <p>He dipped his pen in the inkwell, screwed the converter piston up, and watched as nothing entered the chamber. He screwed it back down and up again, while dipping the nib more deeply into the ink well. He watched as again nothing filled the capsule. He screwed it down a third time. His thumb knocked the inkwell over somehow by accident.</p>
     <p>As he <a href="swear.html">swore</a>, stood up and away from the table, and went into the house proper for paper towels, he resolved to buy a typewriter.</p>
     </section>