Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.
Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.
And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.
-Ezra Pound
Swatches of techniques gone awry tend to end up as garments for my kid's stuffies. Short row toe is now a hat, Road to Oslo cuff is now a...um, cape? poncho?
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