You're naked

I forgot the username and password for my other blog of the same name, so here be the new one. For some reason, this blog carries a stage fright that the laid-back, rupert-murdocked myspace blogspace doesn't, but said stage fright can be erased by me imagining you naked except for black socks. I know that's mostly recommended for public speaking, but even thinking about it is kind of working. Even though I don't know who you are, and have probably never seen you naked, it's working.

Now that my stage fright has gone away a little bit, here's the Dean Young couplet, from a poem I forget the title of from Elegy On Toy Piano, that has been zinging wonderfully in my neurons:

Handprint on the window,
handprint on the sky.