it's all smoke and bones
There were chicken bones on the steps in the train station as I walked from one platform to another last night. Remnants of a meal? Voodoo spell? Voodoo curse?
I am just trying to get it down so I don't forget. Which happens a lot. My non-virtual journal entries tend to devolve into lists of things to do that never get done. This place is filling up fast with brainfarts. Here, take this clothespin. If Google brought you here, I'm sorry. You are unlikely to find what you were searching for. But there's plenty to see if you care to browse around.