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08-22-05 | Bedroom Description (prose challenge) (1 Viewer)

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daniela

Senior Member
Literary Maneuvers: Bedroom Description

Opens: Monday, 22nd of August
Closes: Saturday, 3rd of September

Hi, me again. This time I'm fairly certain LM #4 will be the last one I'm running for a while. So, let's get on with it. Mr. Farror, who recently made the transformation from tiger bunny to duck, has kindly provided this week's theme. I think you'll enjoy it.

In 500 words or less describe your bedroom or the place where you sleep. (I myself prefer a tent in the front yard when the weather is nice - noisy siblings.) As usual, there is room for many different interpretations. Do you have a mountain of junk that seems to come alive at night? Have you ever thought about how an ant or spider views your room? Would you like to stretch your literary muscles and write a description worthy of Ian McEwan? Or is your style closer to that of Lewis Carroll? Whether the entry is serious or humorous, we want to hear about your space. Now let's all go out and write some awesome prose!



All of the usual rules apply. For those of you who are new the LM forum or have forgotten the rules, please look over the LM Guide and previous competitions (especially the Moralistic Fable one).


Before I let you guys take over the thread, please remember these four things. Except for the first one, these are all areas where you could possibly loose points depending on the judges' moods.

1. Only one entry per person is allowed.

2. Your piece needs to have a title and it should be in bold text.

3. Do not go over the word limit.

4. Spelling and grammar count.



Since I am posting this late in the day, I will leave the thread open until 6:00 pm EST on Saturday, Sept. 3. Please submit your entries before then.

Good luck!



Edit: Don't forget to use the off-topic tags for non-entry posts.
Code:
[ot]Praise for awesome entry that I wish I had written.[/ot]
generates
[ot:d80393c933]Praise for awesome entry that I wish I had written.[/ot:d80393c933]


Edit 2: We're looking strictly for prose this time around. No poems, please.
 

Crazy_dude6662

Senior Member
my room



Peaceful, my own place of solitude, no one enters without permission. Incense burns almost constantly, windows and blinds open letting in light and air. Stickers on the door from early childhood, now impossible to remove, the door and stickers are one. Clowns are stuck to the door also, twisted into letters spelling my name. The blue carpet is warm and fluffy, comforting. The duvet and pillow cover are covered in Chinese symbols.
Candles on shelves casting a comforting glow. Books cover a wall, never dusty as they are constantly removed, read and replaced. Computer in one corner, where I stay typing late into the night, when every other member of the family is a sleep, the glow of the computer and the tapping of the computer are still going. Writing scrawled on a message board, reminders and ideas. Frames stuck to walls containing achievements, awards, certificates. Ornaments stand on the desk, things bought with the little money I had as a child. Posters hang on the wall, some bought others given. Blue walls energising and creative.
This is my shelter.
This is my space where no-one intrudes.
This is my safe haven.
This is my room.

Alan K.



sorry it isnt longer
 

daniela

Senior Member
[ot:3531476081]What is it with you and always being first? j/k

The length's fine Crazy dude. I did say 500 words or less. :wink:[/ot:3531476081]
 

Ruben

Senior Member
[ot:a6878f6ce6]*whispers to daniela* somebody should tell crazydude that his signature isn't working[/ot:a6878f6ce6]
 
R

Rico

Midnight Musings

I can’t sleep, as usual. Unfortunately, tonight, I cannot leave the warmth of my bed and spend the long hours of the night online. I am pinned on the bed by the body curled up next to mine, head and arms ensuring that I’ll be here for a while. Knowing it might be hours until sleep finds me, I survey the room in darkness. Without the benefit of sight, of course, my observations are limited to the other senses.

Beneath me, there’s the softness of the new mattress I bought last month and on top, a light cotton blanket. Funny; the color of the blanket escapes me. It looks like a dark color, but when there’s no light, everything is dark. It might be pink, for all I know. Other than the fact, of course, that I wouldn’t actually buy a pink blanket. Most likely, it is some shade of blue. What else do I feel? Well, I could easily spend an extra thousand words to the body beside me, but that would fall outside the parameters of this competition. So, moving on from my tactile impressions.

In the air around me, there is a lingering scent of cologne and sweat, punctuated by the occasional breeze flowing from the open window. It smells vaguely salty, an observation explained by the beach and waves only a few hundred yards from this very room.

The sounds of slow, rhythmic breathing dominate my hearing, but there are other sounds, too. There’s the soft hum of the laptop on my desk, halfway across the room. I can just about make out the blinking green light as it sleeps far more soundly than I. It might just be my imagination, but I feel that I can hear the digital clock counting away the seconds, the display of the red numbers both comforting and ominous. The window is open and I fancy that, just out of my range of hearing, there are waves crashing on the beach beneath a starlit sky. Perhaps someone is out there, listening to them. But again, I forget myself. This is about describing the room.

Now, what have I forgotten? Ah, yes, taste. Well, I could turn my head about five inches and taste the skin of my man, but again, that is outside the bounds of this piece of writing. So I think I’ll leave taste alone.

There’s another feeling here, too, one that cannot be defined or confined to the realms of the senses. It is, I suppose, what you’d call a sixth sense, but I hate that term. Just a gut feeling. This room radiates safety and comfort. It is within this room that I can let go and do whatever crazy thing enters my mind. This is my haven. Perhaps that’s cliché, perhaps naïve, but no description of this bedroom would be complete without it.

And now, with a smile on my lips, I descend into sleep.
 

Londongrey

Senior Member
My Bedroom


The oak floor grains across your sight, bar any feeling of running into my bedroom. A dull sheen eminates from the door as your reflection is wrapped around the brass of the handle. You confront yourself as you enter, the oak framed full length mirror shows the hallway and all who pass through. The window offers an almost back door past it, overlooking terrace after terrace of Victorian Villas through quartered glass and thick gloss frames.

A step in and there is a rustle, like stepping into a clearing in the woods, when your feet touch fallen leaves not found by walkers. It is the warm ivory satin bed spread hanging on the bed, embroidered with delicate flowers that shimmer as you move over them. Lightening strikes through the satin when your hands glide to touch them, light patterns play on the ceiling like in public baths.

The wrought iron frame that holds the human body stands imperial and masculine, smooth matt columns rush up to the plain acorns that round the corners. An Italian coat of arms pokes through, a leg of a unicorn or the point of a shield, bronzes and greens sweep up to the ceiling from the pillows stating that whoever sleeps here may be rich in texture as it is.

You must lift your knee to climb on top, the goose feather bed and duvet enclosed within white Egyptian cotton (like silk Hessian), lets you sink back to the knees of the next person.

'Le Pays Du Sourire' cries the pale coloured poster on the wall, framed behind glass in a simple matt black frame, it declares the coming of a 1930's film it once advertised in a theatre house in Paris. Musique de Franz Lehar!!!

Such is the excitement beside the subdued Edwardian frame of the secretaire. Thin tapered legs make it seem as though a hover charm has been cast, as if too little supports the rosewood writing screen that lowers to hide the oval detail on its face. Just enough room for a delicate wrist to rest on the midnight green leather. It mirrors the gloss window frames in its worn, pebble smooth surface. It constrasts the walls that are painted in soft beige, a soft beige that has been mixed with sand to give the walls texture.

The room seems draped with texture, no spiteful blocks of colour to lead the eye on a biased tour. Just textures, sand, grain and hessian.
 
The Times They Have A'Changed

My bedroom used to be a playground, when I was young and married (and healthy). Satin sheets and pillowcases (well, sateen actually, I couldn't afford satin), a bookcase full of poetry, my guitar propped up against the bookcase, and my irreplaceable collection of VINYL. We would crack open a bottle of Cold Duck and I'd recite e e cummings to set the mood, while burning a stick of incense. Then, we grew apart, and went our own ways. Time and age took it's toll. And, now, what used to be my playground is now prison.
 

mswietek

Senior Member
Where I Sleep But Cannot Rest

Where We Sleep But Cannot Rest

_____Normal bedroom; bed on one wall, two dressers, his and hers, facing each other. Drawn shades keep the room in perpetual twilight, save for a luminescent sliver carved into the far wall by a buzzing streetlamp's glow. Laundry lies in two heaps on the floor, insensitively segregated into whites and colors (there is no Brown v. Board of Ed. for polo shirts and pajamas). A fan stands in the corner, its metal-cage fan-blade head drooping like a discarded lover while the air conditioner hums smugly.

_____My wife lies next to me in bed, face drawn in perpetual poor health, save for the luminescent blue eyes which carve slivers into me when our eyes meet. For her, the bedroom has become the whole of her geography, so pieces from other rooms have been broken down and carted back like plunder from conquered lands. The good TV from the living room sits awkwardly on the dresser. Bathroom toiletries share space with today’s mail on a foldout TV tray. Non perishable foods fit tightly into a plastic bin next to the bed.

_____So we lie in bed watching TV; sitcom reruns from 1992. I hold her hand with my right while I peck, peck, type with my left. Socks strain from out the top of an overstuffed dresser drawer like little animals desperate to get out.

[an:02577434a6]223 words, not including the title.[/an:02577434a6]
 
B

bobbiego

Literary Maneuvers

I Find Peace

On my couch sleep comes easy. It is the softest couch in the whole country, that might be a slight over statement, but it is very nicely plump with feather stuffing which sinks you into a forest environment right in your living room. If I had an inclination to be perfectly honest, I might mention, sleep comes easier there because of the earthquake of snoring that accompanies my husband in his slumber, but that is a family secret, and he would not admit it if asked.

I like falling to sleep with a relaxor thingy on top of my couch. It massages and heats tired bones and automatically shuts down after 16 minutes so you won’t burn yourself up with relaxation. That is an excellent feature. I had one of those nice things a couple years ago, it’s motors got so over used they just quit working, so I have spent the last year looking for a new one. It was not to be found, my little night cap of warmth and massage, so I bought a new couch, whose tenderness might just lull me into bliss. It was pretty good, but I still missed my relaxor…the company spelling not mine. I found one the other day, at a garage sale. It cost me five dollars. Sixteen hundred and ninety seven dollars less than my couch. Now I have both, I am in sleep heaven as long as the scanner is running and the television is on the 24 hour news channel. I feel safe knowing that even asleep I am vigilant in protecting myself and my family. News alerts and fire alarms awaken me. I am on top of everything while under the covers.

The remote is close by, the heat and air conditioning controls are no further than ten feet away, I am merely seconds away from complete comfort, winter, spring, summer or fall.

When I was a kid, I fell to sleep listening to KOMA Top 100 count down from Oklahoma City every night. Now, listening to music, just makes me want to get up and dance, that is not sleep. I truly think I need hubbub going on in the background, it helps me shut down my mind, which does not rest easily and never has. I even leave the bedroom door open so I can hear my hubby’s snore, it just doesn’t shake rattle and roll me this way. My couch is my haven, my safe spot, my comfort zone. It is all I need to be rested and fulfilled. I do not think there is a better sleep area anywhere unless it would be in our fifth-wheel parked next to a fast running creek in the Big Horns…creek noise is like the creators lullaby.

Bobbiego
 

dannyboy

Friends of WF
My Bedroom

word count 499

My daughter comes into my bedroom every night around midnight. I know that’s the time because the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes the start of another day. My wife and I have often debated whether we should turn that clock off but my wife is superstitious (the only other time that clock stopped her father died asleep in his bed). I like to leave it on because I know one day soon my daughter will be gone.

Of course this poses problems like sometimes the need to finish what we’ve begun in the time it takes small feet to patter down the stairs, across the sunroom and through into our bedroom. It makes us laugh, the race we sometimes have at twelve o’clock of an evening in our bedroom.

Sometimes I am not in bed but sitting at the computer that lives on my side of the bed. My wife has books and the alarm clock and a collection of small fluffy animals our daughter carts down each night on her side. I have the computer on mine.

I sit at the computer writing into the small hours while behind me my wife sleeps. It is a beautiful time, my eyes on the screen or often staring out the window into the front garden illuminated by the streetlamp. Sometimes I watch the possums tightrope their way across the powerlines, or the fox that visits regularly even though he polished off my daughter’s guinea pigs a year or so ago.

If I am at the computer when she comes down the stairs she will always sit on my lap for a cuddle, forcing me to stop mid-word, no matter how great the inspiration, then she says ‘A drink please dad.’

She climbs off my lap and falls into the big bed like a body falling into the warm Indian ocean and I get a drink, look at the screen and feel the small tear between my art and my family. Sometimes I return to writing, sometimes I retire and cuddle close the two women of my life.

In my mind is always a hint of sadness for my son, thirteen now, growing up swifter than a sapling. He no longer comes down the stairs. The weight of him in my arms just a memory from long ago merging softly, gently, with other long ago memories, like my own childhood walks to my parents room done in trepidation because it would mean I had wet the bed again and that brought swift rebuke.

Sometimes I turn off the computer and instead of going into my bed I leave my bedroom and climb up the stairs and sleep in my son’s bed, cuddling him as I did all those years ago.

Sometimes I do neither, instead I retire to my daughter’s empty, cooling bed and pretend a relapse into my fantasy childhood; dreaming I could wander down those stairs and into my parent’s welcoming bed if I so desired.
 

Londongrey

Senior Member
[ot:3454c87b66] Dannyboy your avatar is really off putting. It is however interesting to see how people describe this very personal space [/ot:3454c87b66]
 

Kelhanion

Senior Member
The Strange Connection Between Everything And A Relatively Common Object

The universe is infinite or at least pretty close to it. If I found myself floating around endlessly I'd really be depressed. Come to think of it, it would be all my fears coming true at once. I couldn't control the situation in any way. The infinite mass of everything would surround me and that would be a bummer. That's why I like stability.

Planets are nice. They and their pal, gravity, offer people a comfortable place to be in. Sure, in space your hair doesn't get all mixed up or your buttocks grow numb, but you can't lie down or hug the ground up there. I guess the planets give us the feel of security we so badly need. They're like enormous mothers. We know that planets aren't going anywhere. We can't run or hide from them. Even though they travel thousands of miles per second and eventually turn into melting balls of lava, that's basically true.

But being on a planet isn't enough. We have lost the perspective being stuck here for all of our lives. We find the world around us overwhelming: it's practically everywhere. We look for shelter in buildings. A house is considered a nice place. It has walls, usually one on each side, and a roof. It keeps the world outside and us inside.

Yet, while being in the concrete shelter of houses, we can't relax. There is still life everywhere around us in form of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses and those little things that run around drawing on the walls. We need more obstacles.

A room is an awfully good solution. Better yet if it has a door in it. It is really quite odd that such a simple, small cube can keep us away from our family, the human kind, the hemisphere and the universe, but we don't like to think of that kind of things.

A good room has the following things: a bed.

You can do all kind of things in your bed, the second oldest of them being sleeping. You can't really stress the importance of sleep too much. Many of the greatest ideas have been came up with while asleep. Plus, you can usually see some wacky stuff in your dreams.

To describe my room, I will now use the method known as fictional prose. In it you will find a character who is about to enter a room. The character is me and the room is mine. From this story you will learn that my room is nothing but the setting for a good bed, and that that is more than enough.

”I came home from work. I opened the door to my room. I looked around and saw all kinds of random stuff: a desk, chairs, bookcases and little objects on them. Blaa blaa blaa. And there was the bed. I took off my pants and positioned myself on my bed so that my nose faced the mattress. Suddenly, the universe faded out.”
 

strangedaze

Senior Member
My Room as a Lovestory

Word Count: A slice over 500

Fishnet pantyhose, sweaty relics from last night’s bondage playnight, stretch from the pointed tip of my cracked ceramic bedside lamp to the garbage pail a few feet away, sticky latex overflowing and drying into misshapen crusts on its rim. A wig hangs on my closet’s doorknob: blonde – Iris was a blonde yesterday. Iris, like an eye, a beguiling semi-feminine crossdressing eye with bright pink razor blade lines grinning on her forearms.

An unsteady hand has drawn a smiley face, ex’s for eyes, in red lipstick on the cover of my bible. I recognize Iris’s handywork. Nothing like lipstick to lubricate the often grainy, inertia-dampening road that my midnight prayers have to travel to get to God.

Dusty Bibles lead to dirty lives. She laughs. Sometimes I brush up against the good book when I’m reaching for a Kleenix. I imagine it burning the pads of my fingers, feeling past the miscellaneous trinkets (buttons and things) until I find sanitation bliss in a small tissue box, the kind with koalas and zebras and bright, bright flowers printed on the side.

Sometimes we smoke joints under the Trainspotting poster I bought at the university print show. It tells me to ‘choose life’; two words are supposed to inject meaning into my prostitute ridden existence. If I could choose any life, I think that I’d choose to live in the smoky recesses of the purple bong on my desk. (When I’m not looking it kicks rolling paper packages against my brand-spanking new 12 inch iBook: a gift from mom).

Clutter is my room's poetry. It goes without saying that kitsch likes to arrive in my life unannounced, often in the form of strange ceramic collectibles. Garfield eyes me suspiciously from atop a hip-height bookshelf.

Iris stands by the window, her face partially hidden by a long, downward slant in the ceiling that touches the floor, making a small alcove by the window sill. She’s playing with the plants, our plants, all named after literary figures like Wild and Joyce. These are our surrogate children, replacements for the offspring we know we’ll never produce. Do all prostitutes share photosynthetic families with their johns?

Her muscular legs swim in the clothes that flow from the closet and onto the carpet, blotchy stains of cheap blackberry merlot and cigarette ash temporarily vanishing – one unhygienic blunder painted over another. The walls are sporadically white, mostly behind my posters, but tar yellow everywhere else. The room habitually mimics its occupants. In this instance its occupant’s lungs. When I’m dead the superintendent will go to great lengths to wash the walls and a fresh set of lungs will walk in, younger and (hopefully) with a steady paychque.

Fuck it, they’ll think, because the rent’s cheap here, even though the neighborhood is shit and prostitutes work the streets two blocks down. She picks at her fingernails, watching the empty parking lot turn itself inside out. My love is green as I fish it out from under the mattress and throw it on her side of the bed. When it leaves my hands I start sinking, swallowed whole by dirty sheets and dim lighting. The room has decided to move onto bigger and better things.
 
W

who?

Night by Day

My room is not a place of darkness and peace, of serenity and relaxation. It is not a sanctuary, nor my refuge. It is a place of exhausted collapse, of bloodshot eyes and muffled thoughts. It is the place to which I crawl when my energy is all but spent. We have an uneasy relationship, my bedroom and I, the star-crossed lovers that were never meant to be.

It loves me, and I love it, but we are forced apart. Each drawn in another direction, preoccupied by our own selfish needs. I do not spare it a second thought when I’ve rolled out of bed, yawning at the new day; the new afternoon. We do not meet at a traditional time you see; our night is lit by the sun, swallowed by traffic and the squawk of birds.

We meet, resentfully, when our energy is all but spent. We have no time for each other, to relax and unwind, to simply enjoy the sensation of being together. I do not notice the patchwork of furniture, accumulated over the many years from many places, as I drag myself into her warm embrace, nor do I notice the stacks of boxes and magazines waiting patiently to be taken to their final resting place.

She is a good friend, my bedroom, when I let her be, but I do not thank her. I do not show my appreciation, just a silent gratitude that I can sleep. And dream. We share it all, the good times and the bad, but we never speak of them. Countless memories sleep with me in my bed, but they are only half remembered and never discussed.

Yes, it is an uneasy relationship, but we are unable to change.

Rows upon rows of DVDs and CDs clamour for my attention, but I have none to give. Not any more. Not like I used to. My time is pulled in over directions, towards other interests, but still they wait. Always ready for me to return, to love them again. I dare say it’ll be a long wait. Now my room is filled with dust; empty words, broken promises, forgotten dreams. It is the resting place of what I was, and what I am.

It is the only constant in my life, the one thing that remains unchanged. Beneath the crates of bottles and piles of clothes, it is still my room. Still as I remember it, in my waking dreams, when I let my mind wander. A diamond beneath a stratum of filth and decay, just waiting to be unearthed again. And one day maybe it will, when my time is not stolen by petty thoughts and pointless distractions. When once again I can return to her warmth, her love, and remember what we had been.

But that day is not yet here, and so she waits. She sits and she dreams, knowing in her heart I will be back as long as she has patience.
 

Dirkin

Senior Member
The Room I Sleep In

Everytime I step into my room, it is like stepping into a jungle. It is a little misty perhaps, or my eyes act up on me. I step over my fallen clothes. Like a snake I have shed layers of skin, leaving them on my floor to decompose, and fuel the next generation of flora. I sit on my bed. Its large, but rather ratty, as if it had been slept on by a thousand people, perhaps even a million. Ratty is the word I would call it, so often I cover it with a blanket, springs visibly poking through. Somehow I miss them while I sleep. I must have a map.

Around my bed, I have books, hundreds of them, of all categories. I have non-fiction for studying real life events for use in my stories. I also enjoy reading classical fiction, I have a collection of that as well. Lining the top of my shelves are the books that hold the most intrigue to me at least, works by R.A. Salvatore, JK Rowling, and Scott McCough. I have a book by Eve Forward as well, and it is getting banged up around the edges. A sign of love I am positive.

I sit at my computer, open up the Internet Explorer window. Looking around my computer, I see various knickknacks, which hold no real meaning except to me. Star Wars action figures, drawings that I drew as a child and adolescent. A phone beside the computer connects me to the real world, like a tether, as long as I have someone to hold the other end. Looking up to the right I can see that it is a bright day out today, and looking to the left, I see a large mirror. My reflection is far from it though. All I see through the mirror is my television, which is behind me. Discovery Channel is on, something about Pyramids. Cartoons used to fuel my creativity; Captain Planet was my hero. Now I watch the Discovery Channel. Real life is so much more interesting then children’s cartoons or at least I think so. My television is large, but not massive. I’m happy with it.

I look around. Perhaps I could and should clean my room a little, but I’m comfortable. I enjoy a comfortable level of filth, as long as it doesn’t stink. That would be bad. I mean, at least I can see my carpet. Pulling down my book by Eve Forward I begin to read. After reading several times, the adventures of Samlander and Arcie still entertain me, but not for long. I put the book down and lay down on my bed. There used to be posters around my room. I really don’t know where they went. I guess time just devoured them. I think about my story, how I will continue, and break through my current writer’s block. I sit up and look around. It’s not perfect, but it’s home.
 

LoneWolf

Senior Member
My Room is Weird

My room. It's such a strange little space, this area that is supposed to represent the complicated anguish of my teenage heart. As I gaze around I realize how odd and insane I would seem to anyone who stepped foot here. Yet here I am, giving you the opportunity to join me in my black hole of a room.

The greatest of ironies occur on my door; only in my world would a gorgeous, detailed picture of a viola sit nobly atop a glossy picture of --oh, no-- Eminem. Somehow I have managed to force them into playing a Wooden Door Duet.

The wall to the left of this entrance is covered in clippings from newspapers, mainly about sports--Tiger's fourth Masters, the Red Sox's historic game, the Panther's road to the Super bowl--it's all there amidst numerous plaques and certificates.

As I gaze around again I see how much stuff I really have, as if I were a packrat; my small bookshelf sits bravely, jammed and overflowing with discount books. Another shelf acts a home to the books of my childhood, too precious to be given to the library.

A smile flickers across my sleep deprived face as I see my CD collection. There are so many CDs, so many genres. My heart sings with joy at the recollection of the frantic, excited ripping at the plastic, that first chord that sets off the musical adventure---it's touching, really. My CD collection exudes the fiery mix of melodies with the help of my impeccable taste; my New Orleans feather boa and beads add a touch of spiciness to anything.

Sitting in front of the CD player is my collection of shot glasses and pictures of friends. Stuck on the wall above this music device is my collection of stickers from the age of ten and up. Put these two collections together and you get to the core of Chelsea---a person who likes to collect stickers while drunkenly pouring liquor into various shot glasses.

Oh yeah, that's me.

Random papers have found a permanent home in various corners, making it feel all at once cozy and disgustingly messy, a wonderful mix. And looking down on me from more than one wall are my precious Eminem posters, collected over six years. These are my centerpieces, my viola! moments; somehow they don’t fit in with the rest of my seemingly normal but eclectic room. One would ask, why would a girl with a viola picture, respectable writing talent, and plaques love Eminem and own pictures of him?

The answer is quite simple: because I am weird. My soul is a mix of all things strange and confusing, and that shows in my room. To me, my Eminem posters add life, mystery, and amusement to my room. So, in a sense, my room is basically me (without the talking and the thinking and…you know): small and simple, but surprisingly unique. However, it can also be utterly perplexing...and funny, of course.

[ot:1cd7ddbedd] It's meant to be humorous and kind of questionable. I figured, I'm writing about my personal space, so I should write as myself. I tried my best... 500 words on the nose...woot![/ot:1cd7ddbedd]
 
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