pager in my pocket, tattered jeans and a

curious haircut, and I fling myself into

the air to the tune of half-forgotton

bands between the green walls of a little

room so far from you it could take

your breath away, if you had breath to

give. And as the british lyrics pelt

these walls and music shakes the floor

beneath me, I write this particular

paragraph in my mind and recode the

generic strings of JavaScript that I

shall use when Ian Curtis stops singing

and this music spirals into silence..."

Some people ask how these pages came to be.

The truth, predictably, is stranger than everything.

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