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The line is good is a literary quarterly dedicated to literature for the literary.
Our writing will be experimental, fresh, and new - refusing to debase itself on the pyre of mainstream literature.
From prose to poetry, ranging in style and all substantive, the line is good delves into the creases of our lives through its boldness and originality.
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New Writing...
I in her hoodie
Ronan Sullivan
And so I reach for my phone and it is dark and late and I am drunk in a suit. The cars going by are all taxis and dopplerise and she does not answer me.
I do not know her but message her and she does not answer me, not at all.
The other one I guess is asleep but for some reason I am afraid of seeing her again now so i message the one I do not know, but she does not answer me.
From the theatre and she does not answer me so I smoke five more cigarettes and sing to songs playing aloud.
The other who I know have slept with was scared to message I do I do message and at four am she does not answer and I feel sad like maybe I will cry because I cannot have sex and in my suit I smoke more and wait outside my hall in the air and the dawn is nearly breaking.
The next morning I message her the one who I know and say sorry for messaging so late. The one I do not know from theatre I do know her just not well and she read all my messages without responding. I feel ashamed and hope I never see her again.
Breakfast is full English and cold and I have cereal too. I talk little to my friends because I am eating.
The girl who I know is across the hall and I avoid eye contact but then after I go upstairs and nap and then evening arrives I eat.
Back upstairs late evening a message from her arrives asking to spoon and so I walk there and we spoon and sleep together. The back-of-her-neck smells and hair calm me. We sleep together and she comes a lot but we already know this is easy for her and then I do too and when we wake the sun is really out. We forgot to pull the curtains.
Her carpet is sparse and room is so much bigger than mine. We eat breakfast I in her hoodie and I have tracksuit on with no underwear. In front of people I know I do not like displaying affection but I put my arm around her at breakfast as we sit with our friends. She leans her head into me.
The girl from the theatre walks past me as I go to rehearsals. She smiles at me and I feel excitable. I saw her in her play and she was a good performer and her name is French. She also has a red coat and cycles and a symmetrical face. She smiles without worry whether others will smile too and so other people do. Her hair is blonde and brown ish and not too long. I do not really like long too long hair.
After the rehearsal for the play she the girl who I know comes to my room and we sleep together. I always struggle to nod off with someone else in the bed.
In the morning we walk to a lecture we both do. It is a philosophy one I picked because I knew she was doing it. We were not sleeping together at the time and she had a boyfriend and I wanted to be near here and spend more time with her.
She goes after and I have lunch alone in the hot canteen. It is chicken and chips and I feel fatigued after eating.
Walking back to my halls the sun is intense and I appreciate the amount of trees and green on the campus – there are lots of trees and green on this campus.
Ronan Sullivan
BOOK REVIEW WEDNESDAY: 'SECOND PLACE', BY RACHEL CUSK
Good, good - not bad: Second Place not quite the winner
Rachel Cusk's first book after her 'Outline' trilogy replaces autofiction with art-fiction to reasonable - but not complete - success.
Second Place by Rachel Cusk is the first novel I have read of hers, having only read her autofictional Outline series.
Even if Second Place happens to be at least semi-autobiographical it is still a text that feels more shaped and designated than either Outline, Transit, or Kudos do.
Cusk's text is about a woman, M, who invites a past-it artist, L, to her remote home, years after seeing his work in San Francisco and feeling an unspeakable connection to his subjectivity, a connection modulated by the feeling of lack she noted as full by his art.
The artist accepts, bringing a woman with him, after finagling past travel restrictions a la the covid era. He, with his amour, hole up in the narrator's eponymous second place on the property: a smaller accoutrement to the house at large, where the narrator lives with her husband, Tony, and soon her daughter and her boyfriend, Julia and Kurt.
The text explores M's attempts to entrance herself into L's subjectivity, the one she felt expressed through his work those years before, that she felt changed her life's course.
Her success in this is, however, limited.
L is antagonistic and standoffish to M with immediacy, speaking to her as though her existence only is a slight on his. M believes she will achieve success by asking L to paint her, as he has wished to do with Tony. L relents, but Tony takes this poorly, and leaves the property.
M is desperate to remedy this, but has no success. Instead, L paints a mural on the second place's wall in which M is depicted as the snake in the Garden of Eden. She is shocked and appalled by this and cannot understand the permanence and depth of his disdain.
Cusk's first-person narration unfolds through the prism of a dialogue to Jeffers, whose identity is not fleshed-out other than as a conduit through which the story of Second transpires.
Often M is exclamatory to Jeffers: 'not that we ever went anywhere in any case!'; 'we needed one another!'.
The impression espoused by this of M is of one pleading at the confessional; it is a tone unemployed in Cusk's 'Outline' trilogy.
M is altogether a more desperate and edgeless character than her other narrator, shading the text with pathos and symbolising her need to be ensconced in L's worldview, despite his unending antagonism.
Second Place is a text fighting to gain differentiation; M's entire purpose is entrancing herself into L and all plot is derived from L's actions - good or bad.
It is a thankless quest to gain recognition and Cusk's intellectual dive into an existentialist slot renders the book part philosophy and part novel.
My enjoyance of the book came in its bleakest moments of ennui and rejection: they felt full despite the emptiness enveloped in them.
Cusk is a writer of integrity who values complexity where it exists, and the depths of emotion that can leave readers feeling modules of confusion and self-questioning; there is not a simple line in the book.
She is not my favourite author, but the dialling-up of activity in Second Place was a stylistic departure from Outline, Transit, and Kudos I preferred.
I'd recommend Second Place if you want to question why it is you live and whether one day you could afford to own a secluded property with two houses proper.
The silver goes to...
Second Place / Faber.
Photo Credit: Siemon Scamell-Katz
The Outline Trilogy / Faber.
An awkward encounter
Ronan Sullivan
I look up and see a face I recognise - its eyes reluctant to meet mine.
“Oh”, I say, dumbstruck, “hi”.
She steps forward to the bar. There is a light rain.
“Hi”, she says.
Her friend beside is scanning between our eyes, determining the social barometer. I say hi.
I am serving on a lengthy bar in Finsbury Park for a gig: Jamie T is headlining.
“How are you?” I ask them both.
Everything in me is pleading for death.
“Good”, she says.
“You?” She follows up.
I must achieve normalcy somehow, someway.
“Yeah, fine”, I say, “just working the festivals and gigs to get a bit of money”.
She crosses her arms and I see the skull-embrace tattoo on her right forearm – one she had the last time I saw her a year ago.
I inhale. My exhale is short.
“Anyway”, I break the silence with, “what can I get you?”
“A tequila ginger beer”.
“We serve that?”
Her eyes avoid mine as ants flee the sun.
“Yep”, she responds.
My friend fetches the drinks for me, but comes back empty-handed.
“I can’t find it”, he says, eyebrows raised in concern, “do we serve it?
I point at the red-headed woman serving the spirits. “Ask her”.
I turn back to them and smile, and my legs grow weak with the inability to say anything.
Think of something to ask, think of something to ask.
She has a new tattoo around her sternum.
Am I ogling her?
“Taking a while, isn’t he?” I ask. They nod. Her eyes are scanning the universe.
I look back and he is walking up and down, lost.
“Does getting the drinks normally take this long?” Her friend asks.
“No”, I say, looking back at him now being poured a drink by the red-haired woman at the spirits, “this is the longest by far”.
He brings the drink up. “Here he is”, I say.
“There”, he says under his breath.
“Thanks”, I say to him as I place the cup on the sticky bar.
He slinks away to not witness this anymore than he must.
“It’s £9.50”. I hold out the reader – she taps.
My breathing is slowing but my legs are still pulsing with worry.
As she grabs the drink her friend says she wanted one too.
“Oh”, I say, “did you? Sorry”.
I hold out the reader.
My friend darts off and returns within twenty seconds. He was rushing.
He understands me.
“Alright”, I say, “have a nice time”.
I look into her downward eyes, wanting her to look at me.
“Yep”, she says, drink close to her chest, and the new tattoo. I don’t know what it is. “You too”.
She doesn’t raise her eyes beyond the rim of the cup. They walk away.
“Bye”, I say, smiling.
My friend and I make eye contact. I grimace in panic still having not left my body. He is gobsmacked.
Another customer comes to the bar.
“Hi”, I say, “what can I get you?”
Portrait № 2 11:00am
Ronan Sullivan
Portrait series: a collection of short descriptions of objects and/or things. № 2 is eleven am.
The morning slinks away and people arrive into the store, now having visited others already; the time is right to enter, to browse, behind the till of which I stand. Some walk in, offer a smile, and continue on, while others do not see me, maybe are on their phone, talking, like a man this morning, at around 11am.
The man, with an East London accent, in as loud a voice I hear in the store - bar the teenage girls after school - is talking to a woman on the phone (I cannot remember her name). He informs her that it should be done: that the work is done, that he will send pictures. I try to ignore his voice, to file books away nearer to him, but his loudness is obtrusive. I have Knausgaard in my hand.
Anything you need at all, yeah? He tells her, because I know Peter’s away, so the four of us should go out - you need to get out the house. Just know I am here for you. Okay, bye, love. She must say something like, thanks, goodbye.
He hangs up and I am heartened by him: by his gruff voice espousing warmth, by his reassurance. My day, for a moment or two, feels brighter - blanched and under industrial light.
At the till a girl waits with a school lanyard around her neck, holding two books.
The sun is neither out, not out from under clouds and greyness sits atop all in my view through the open door: the town and the river stretching through from borough to borough along which often I stomp past, in my boots, as well as the old men, women - I worry I will age and be elderly and so suffer, nor be seen as young, or attractive, like them, but am I that vain -- really?
I walk over to the till. Hi, I say, just these?
Several elderly people potter around the store. I notice the man talking on the phone is gone.
The schoolgirl takes her book, thanks me as I thank her, and exits unto a swilling pavement.
I thought I felt warm and light in here.
Later, on my break, I can hear voices in the street below, playfighting, as I sit three floors up in the empty, cold staff room without the heater turned on. An eaten pasta pot sits on the table.
Do they too think about whom can hear them?
Ronan Sullivan
'OCTOBER CHILD', BY LINDA BOSTRÖM KNAUSGÅRD: AN ORCHESTRA OF FRIED HEADS
October Child's electroconvulsion and trauma symphonise discordancy
Boström Knausgård's third novel is a testament to an eschewing of traditional form and chronology, representing the text's themes of amnesia and abuse.
Linda Boström Knausgård. Photo: Christina Ottosson Oygarden
The non-chronology followed in Boström Knausgård's October Child is an accurate summation of the seeming unsettled nature the book pertains to: she is in 'the factory', or her sweltering hospital room, surrounded by nurses; she is in memoriam of her memories - her children, whose names are the last words of the book.
The certainty with which time flows, entropy envelops, is shunted to corners of her bridled psyche, captured in a text pockmarked by experiences of electroconvulsive therapy, recollections of a fear-bred childhood, and the longing of memories' return amidst their clear lack.
It is a formal lack of structure that represents her standing in a contextual literary and medical space.
October begins in earnest with talk of 'the factory', her experiences and time there for several years in the mid-tens being the bedrock and the prism through which she writes the text and we, as an audience, will consume it.
Her medical experience is defined in a space not of her own choosing, by people who do not engage on a truer level with her own psyche, and instead resort to base outlines unjust to her own being.
In both texts the women are carted around by a vague sense of entrapment, the doctors prescribing cause and effect often faceless, or uncaring.
There is a female typicality to both Boström Knausgård's and Galloway's recounting that is inescapable, that relates to the disownership of female bodies in medical contexts.
As pertinent is her husband's work - specifically, his My Struggle series; Karl Ove Knausgård's collection offers up much of his then-wife Linda.
Inevitable is Boström Knausgård's work being seen as some kind of riposte, an offering of contrasting subjectivity her voicelessness in Karl Ove's work failed in delivering.
Choosing to narrativise her losses through an anti-narrative, through a textual seam closer to poetical texts, with its amalgam of non-chronologies, of unknowing, and of randomised imagery, is indeed a riposte, but to form and expectation.
What Boström Knausgård executes is a subjectivity unburdened by expectation of reply; none of what she writes feels engaged with her ex-husband's text. This is not an interaction, but rather an incidental relation.
Importance is lain bare in terms of her children, in terms of memory and how she relates to her own past, all while Boström Knausgård knows as she writes that whatever she does produce will be contrasted with her ex-husband's work.
Her interview to promote October with the Guardian establishes as much: the tagline is, 'I would like to be seen as a person and author in my own right', and she herself is prefaced as 'the Swedish author, whose life was laid bare in controversial novels by her ex-husband'.
Boström Knausgård therefore is already operating against a swell that inhibits an autonomous identity, promoting a text about psychiatric incarceration and its therein loss of memory, and the memory's causing loss of identity too; a symmetry reflected formally.
This impossibility of position, that her own voice cannot stand alone as its own bastion of subjectivity, is a shame, but not one that trounces her work.
Despite the focus on the man who described the interiority of her life, who she now believes probably cannot write women, Boström Knausgård's non-response (not 'dialogue') is a thematic and formal fit with the crux of the text.
Karl Ove and Linda /Photograph: Thomas Grabka VG
On executing, publishing, and promoting this book, Boström Knausgård is also subject to the pieces of her spread out through Karl Ove's work, and her place in a literary context being dis-autonomised by this; she lacks power and control here too; this experience analogous to her medical one.
October is a text of parts separated by stupefaction; Boström Knausgård does not try to piece them together - she observes them as they come to her, piece-by-piece, and in shreds. It is the amalgam of being ripped apart, and the coalescing of far-out distances.
She has expressed a voice that is echoic, but filtered through time, trauma, and oppressive tendencies, either self-inflicted or otherwise, leading to sounds and statements out of kilter with one another, making an orchestra of discordant noises, like the image of her singing louder and louder in her room, as no one comes to quiet her.
Leaving this music as is, in its shapelessness and lumpen being is an achievement of form's lack and of her own experience in her literary and medical contexts; October Child is a jumbling of notes symphonic.
The Trick is to Keep Breathing / Vintage
She is controlled, from room to corridor, to the interior of the factory, where vague doctors offer vague words about her condition, and insist on electric shocks as she slips into anaesthetised unconsciousness. There are similarities between October and Janice Galloway's recounting of medical experience in The Trick is to Keep Breathing.
Several times she recounts attempts of suicide: one that is most vivid and described is of a trip with her mother wherein she planned to jump from her third-floor apartment window, only to be dragged down twice by her mother, displaying maternal superstrength. The police come and put her in a unit: an officer chastises her for her lack of gratitude at her positive living conditions.
October Child / World Editions
as the time comes shorter
Ronan Sullivan
as the time comes shorter, thrumming like
sunburns at festival
bitemarks on teeth,
spit on tongues, lick-skin and quiet bedtime entrances
when the warmth of your legs is embittered
by the in memoriam section:
nighttime walks,
dropping IDs into the lake, sullying a fingertip with the bed-mark anxieties,
as one shuts one’s self away
through exam periods,
theatre tickets and microwaveable pizza.
the sound of silence rings in the rooms next door:
everyone has gone,
off to suffer in the silent way
so,
the basketball hoop is forever
coughing empty air,
wind blows unto the brickwork,
the snooker table is un-felted
clicking of balls into one another, excised -- scalpel-driven.
THE BASS WAS HARD, SO I JUST RIPPED OFF MY TOP, WRAPPED IT AROUND MY FINGER AND SKANKED IT OUT FOR HALF AN HOUR
Ronan Sullivan
By now it is dark and sunset. The organisers give the exact location later at about ten or so the three of us walk ten minutes around some dark streets with not many cars. I’ve never been to one of these but they have and they tell me this is how it goes down.
The rave is meant to be in Southeast London somewhere so when we get out the station at Croydon - a borough I’ve never been to - coagulations of teenagers with not enough clothes and spliff-air indicates we are in about the right place.
I waited by the Tesco for them beforehand while they got ready, eating chocolate-covered mini doughnuts as teenagers waited outside the entrance asking for people to buy alcohol and fags for them.
At the address a queue snakes out of the empty car park of an abandoned office block with seven or eight floors split into boys and girls and a bouncer says, oi, get over there because I am with two girls.
My blisters in my heels start to peel as I fidget and tap because I’m a fish out of water here, I’m choking a bit, but I get in after giving a tenner my mum handed me earlier.
Music from floors above is creaking the ceiling inside like Jurassic Park. I realise I haven’t had any water in three hours, so I’m dying; my throat’s hot. It is empty down here too.
Just dregs of people from the queue in this abandoned office setup, and I see the dust-lacking where the chairs and desks would’ve been down here. The place extends into a rectangle into the right where the stairs are - the lift’s decommissioned.
Further along a stretch of an office it is just smoke, old carpet and people sweating like lizards already, even down here, with only the faint thrumming of music - not even any DJ set up.
My chest is sharp rivets, that catch where it snarls below when I cough. What you on Conor? Someone says to me, coming up to my face.
And I say, nothing, because my name is not Conor. I am not on anything.
They go off one foot at a time into the stairs.
The two I’m with come in from their queue and we go up a few flights. The girls skank to really fast, high-bpm music in this darkened office with sheets on the windows and lots of people, sardine-tight, off their nuts, and I am standing there like it is a busy, long parents’ evening.
The DJ at the end of the room is behind a school desk, decks upon it, two massive speakers, taller than him, either side of him. A bandana on his face covers his features so when two disco balls and strobes on either side lighting up sections of the room at a time my retinas burn a bit every time they pass me. I see his bandana is red, generic. We make eye contact, so I turn. One of the girls takes my hand and we walk out of the room into the stairway, then they walk ahead of me up a floor.
Where we going? I ask behind them. I dodge out of the way of people smoking spliffs and gumming dizz going up and down.
House room, she says, looking back for the split of one second.
On the way over to hers, looking out of the train as it stood to re-order the service, the sunset dulled purple behind the Gherkin.
Now, the night was in twilight settings I see as I peer out a window on the seventh or eight floor.
I don’t know which because all the signs or directories are ripped off the wall. I can see the paint outline, where it’s lighter, where it was before abandoning.
This room’s DJ is not as remote because the room’s distended, and the people’s feet are not as tricky, not as fidgety. I don’t know what to do here; nothing at all feels very comfortable in any way because it is very tight in here, more so than below.
Ash keeps falling on my bare arms and I cough because of all the smoke, but try to dance. I try to assimilate.
A girl called Skye I don’t know, but the girls I am with do, shouts into my ear, you alright?
It is her face close to mine and like the girls she has bright eyeshadow on, now sweating like a lizard too. What? I shout.
You alright?
Na I’m pretty sober, I say, it’s terrible, init.
Have some of this, Skye shouts into my ear. She gives me her lucozade bottle, it’s rum and pink lemonade.
I sip and spill some.
Smell is the liquid touching my lips, tongue and throat is burning, but sweet, like if I ate a liquorice somebody had put in acid but it goes to my head like crazy so I sweat lizard then too, and lose all sense of what day or month it is but I think it is the 31st today so this is a more fair thing to think really and things are changing now I can know it in me.
It's eighty proof, she shouts. I give her a look and sip more wild now. Sip more and more and more and then.
Hours later, probably, or it could be about ten minutes because I have burnt so many calories two-stepping my shirt is soaked and I have an ache in my calves and everyone keeps acting shocked when I tell them, just drink after they ask me, what you on? everyone asks this.
People around are worshipping skanking if I go near those speakers I feel the inside of my ears it vibrates my socks and I love it I'm one of them and skanking too I think whatever this I'm doing I take spliffs offered about even though drink before draw and people tongue pills onto each other and I’m sure this is what Studio 54 was like but I see one of the girls I came with grinding on some boy and it is a disaster.
My knees sink of their own accord like Nostradamus begging and my right-side kidney throws up itself out my mouth.
I note how sugary the bit-end of my teeth are as I fall amid the blood from my tongue I've bit now.
I lick my tears but they’re sweet now too and my hands are on my head and I sob sob sob. I thought I was too drunk for this level of feeling but I'm not at all I'm not.
A few months ago I drank for the first time and she told me, here have some more holding out an England mug and I'm drunk now and she doesn’t like me now. Skye sees my genuflection so kneels down and shouts to my wind-tunnel ear, you alright?
The music blurs her speech but she is shouting again and I say, what?
I said you alright? But she just sees me crying and says aw bubba and looks at what I was looking at and says oh bubba.
Takes me by the elbow out into the corridor as though it’s her shift at the nursing home. A girl bends down to us and says to Skye, is he alright?
Skye nods and says, yeah hes fine, his -- is just ------- with someone.
And the girl goes aw, that’s fucked, okay and then says do you have any weed?
For a few minutes nothing then someone bends down to my ear and it’s her and the boy she was grinding on is stood in the background I see I recognise through the crook of my elbow in my knee my head leaning on it with his hand in his pockets just behind.
She shouts in my ear you can’t be upset, we ----- -- a week ago.
So I say, yeah, yeah, and wave her away and she goes. Nightmare.
I spend five minutes just staring down at my crotch and the carpet breathing, hearing so, so many footsteps going by and still the odd person asking, is he okay? Do you have any md btw? Ket? No ket?
I can’t take it anymore, but I stand up, hug Skye sniffle and sigh because it feels better what else can I do?
Thank you, I shout and she just says
It's no problem, should we go back in?
And I manage to get myself up off a crinkly radiator dance a bit more with Skye inside, but she is still there with the guy so I pretend to get tired but I can’t go home it’s like four in the morning and I’m in Croydon I live so far away how would I? So I go in the quiet area of one of the floors and I just want to be in my duvet in my bed by the window looking out but not really but anything but this, please. I see a patch of carpet why can I smell BBQ smoke I sleep.
Three are there when I wake up from my cat nap I don’t know them.
I yawn stretch I have a pinprick pain in my back and someone walking past taps me and leans down says with dilated blue pupils tells me you know you’ve got a cigarette burn on your back mate? And he seems almost excited about it then he smiles and then walks off and I wonder if it was him in a flower shirt and shorts and sweating like a lizard the cunt.
The three people look at it and it’s a hole in my favourite shirt and one girl blonde crimped hair she says, yeah it’s burnt are you okay?
I say, yeah, yeah and rub my eyes of sleep and I think maybe I actually feel okay but it is like after a festival in here nos canisters fag-ends stains baggies no tents hot but im cold like tired though still that BBQ smell I’m sure I see a lad raving munching on a massive chicken leg but it might’ve been a spliff am I having a stroke?
Outside the windows behind the non-ply tog sheers the yellowy sun is risen by now orange tone like dripping I look out I need to get some air its like pre-2007 smoking ban in this office so I go up onto the roof somehow up a ladder I’m scared but I need out of confinement and at that moment I pierce the microwave film to get up there the clouds just put in a bag the sun for the day and it all goes from shadow to grey just dull back with clouds.
And there’s somebody else on the roof getting air too, looking at police vans around the bottom of the building in the car park.
What happened? I ask this person in a tie-dye protest against rainforest emasculation tee I don’t get it. They just shrug at me gallic shrug at me smoke their spliff flick it down and say, dunno, mate in a thick Scouse accent and I worry I’m in liverpool by now because what the fuck’s gone on? What’s happened? The air I breathe in is cool down my molars and throat like menthol, so my eyes blink, un-drying.
Things slow.
Find out someone died and that someone got a finger lopped off by trying to turn off a fire alarm off. The police are taking details as we file out, 1984. We’re all bunched in the car park being filtered in queues by a line of coppers, but unisex. I'm trying to look up addresses of streets near me, but not mine, so I can give a fake address a road a couple over from mine, give my name as something Taylor too. He just jots in a notepad, puffy-cheeked, and nods. He says, do you know anything about what happened?
I shake my head, say, no, sir.
Alright, be on your way, son. He gestures with a thumb behind him. A few police officers eye people walking by them with their hands in their vests like typical.
Like I've been holding my breath as Chihiro in Spirited Away I set on my haunches a street over and catch up with myself. My stomach growls so I go to a McDonald’s nearby with these three. Skye turns up, I dunno, half an hour or so later.
I’m so hungry about to order chips and then I hear her voice in the swing-sound of a McDonald’s door behind me; she’s turned up with the bloke. I groan - why is she here?
I sit feeding myself cold fries, catatonic but then tired like mania, so in a booth in the upstairs section we’re in I lie down on the flat, beanbag-bursting cushions. I'll sleep here, this’ll be good. I don’t say anything. I just amble off, lie down, feel myself drift soon, but a few minutes later a cleaner comes along, prefaced by dust-sweep on ceramic and says, please, could you get up? You cannot lie there.
I say oh, sorry. They - she too - laugh at me, and it’s all a big joke, init. For god’s sake. At home I lie very still in my duvet and stare out my window thinking how someone lost a finger in a fire alarm.
“Five minutes in, the fire alarm starting going off, and everyone was like, "Rip it off! Rip it off!" So I thought I’d give it a go. I was completely sober at the time. I jumped up, grabbed it, and my little finger got caught in the case because it was all broken, and as I came to rip it back down, my little finger got ripped off completely.
The bass was hard, so I just ripped off my top, wrapped it around my finger and tied it up as tight as I could and skanked it out for half an hour.”
So now I know.
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