"breakage" poems
there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.
Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a price,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.
Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.
The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.
Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.
Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.
The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.
The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
‘Twas during inner turmoil that a certain yearning arose
Whispers of breakage reaching deeper as time goes
From the disillusionment of reality it was forged
Of seething rage the desires hunger gorged
In following certain conformities felt like being a prisoner
The will to resist the motions of many being aimed to muster
To not be like a tree that has to be cut or uprooted just to move
To be driven by reasons that to only ones viewpoint can behoove
Looking at another view of the coming uncertainty
As a pathway to many possibilities with regards to unpredictability
That stopping a tragedy is sometimes not the thing to do
Lest one forgets that the phoenix must burn down to rise anew
Or that Ragnarok is followed by a great rebirth
Who can know what revelations a raging flood might unearth?
Being lost might as well be the way to find an elusive longing
The remedy to the Anhedonia closely and ominously looming
When being chained to the rhythm just compares to an inner futile feeling
Knowing that a greater horizon is missed by the act of settling
A bet on the odds that epiphany might be found in whatever form
To behold serendipity actually being brought by the coming inner storm
In using the great idleness to plan the restoring of a balance
And to see clearly without the feeling of rushing pressure and turbulence
The path and pace may change to the deeper quest not yet ceased
In bringing forth the long sought betterment through a cataclysmic release.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
i wish to touch the bits of you that endure my dirt.
i wish
more than ever the shape of your face in the curve of my long and twisted fingers.
there's something about it that make my hands
okay to look at again.
like they may have a found a fitful purpose, caressing the demon mouth
that kisses my angel teeth,
residing underneath
my loved lips
that send trips
to your words.
they encase your bright
eyes
and devour the confidence left in them.
but what i meant
to say was, i see your bright
eyes
showing fight to the fence
that you build so high.
i can see the lies shine
like a light was tied ,
just for me to breach them.
just so i could teach them,
you are one to beat them.
even though its you who seeds them.
emitting the aroma of tainted goodness and its all
okay
because of the eutony of this all.
these words can break my fall.
if i make the call,
and summon the space,
my soul
will come and take the place
of the weak face
i can no longer
sonder,
anymore in the background of your filled up recognitions.
there's
no
space
for
my
sad
face.
there's
no
place
for
my
heart
ache.
sent into solivagance.
this is a dark red redamancy,
one of a curse.
the birth
of our breakage
started at the first
touch of a sacred
unto a scarred soul.
and she cried
finding nothing but an empty black hole,
in return. forever churned
in a lustuous magnetism.
a
love prison.
its something that buries itself
beneath all the logic in my heart,
creeping from underneath my sins.
its some kind of wonder,
beckoning the birth rights
of every death in my future.
[ it's some kind of mutual case of kalopsia. ]
Of all the questions that beg my being,
why do my fingers still only look straight
when they're resting on your rigid face ?
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
~~~~There is turmoil in the turning,
Breakage in the bend,
Talks of new beginnings,
Whispers of the end.
*Screams of silence so deafening,
Lips that move without a sound.
Never knowing what's happening,
Feeling lost, fighting to be found.*
Something on the surface,
That begs for something more.
The meaning in the purpose,
The dangle of the lure.
*The escaping thoughts of mind,
Lost to the strong willed
Caught up in the social grind,
The way of life was once killed.*
*Oh!, and ain't it a shame?
Staying still, while life races by
Losing this grandest of games
Barely floating, while everyone else can fly...*
That's where some will find themselves,
Arms down by their side.
Standing here if nowhere else,
This, their lot in life.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
She followed the trail like braille.
She bound bending turns by feeling.
A long journey, kneeling and frail.
Was there always one cloud
in the sky?
Do all the birds in one direction
fly?
Who can see beyond the shroud?
She left the footpath
And listened to songs
in the wind,
Toward the home
of the homeopath.
Arriving: no one there.
Time took a moment
to stare.
She must be out.
She must be there.
Beyond: a sign of being.
She must have left a note
for me to be seeing.
No one ever came.
But a dusty mirror shown:
One blind human alone.
Then, she was healed.
What is soft?
To what do we yield?
Can it speak our language?
Is the barrier translated beyond the breakage?
Just then, a birdie sat beside.
And, the bird and I need not share.
We just sat and stared.
Until it flew again.
And I wondered,
if both our minds were bare:
Could I be up there?
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 10:32 PM UTC
Your heart is the same shape and size
as a fist
But don’t use it like one
because hearts
they aren’t metaphors like a fist
they cannot be healed with stitches and a band-aid
The ability to touch does not mean the ability to feel
and waiting for your heart to heal
it’s a hell of a lot more than antiseptic
My fury for you
I threw some punches
I tried to break open that prison that holds your heart captive
but I guess my voice just wasn’t the right frequency because it’s still in tact
and yes,
when the world went quiet for a moment
I could hear the gears of the universe turning inside of you and I loved the sound of it
but that’s my fault
You told me I was too young and I don’t see the way that the real world works
and that’s because I view the world in metaphors but life
is not poetry
I knew the woman at the beauty supply store had never had her heart broken
when she kicked me out of the hair isle for slathering shampoo on my chest
because I was hoping the suds would seep in through my skin and
find their way to my heart
The label on the bottle read anti-breakage
I just couldn’t resist to try
The librarian was confused when I returned the dictionary that smelled like peroxide and was covered in band-aids
Maybe she had never been hurt by words or maybe
life is not poetry
I told you that kissing you was like waking up right before seeing the sun rise
after the apocalypse
You didn’t understand
I told you that I wanted to string the stars from your bedroom ceiling so you would always have something to count on and again you didn’t understand
I told you my heart was a quilt of mixed-matched fabric with flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions
You still didn’t understand even though our internal wounds are stitched up using the same thread
Because life is not poetry
Life is real and I am so **** good at letting people love me
it scared me to see my joy sitting in your hands
slipping through the creases of your fingers like sand
I stopped saying your name when it started sounding real to me
So I guess this is how it ends
With the realization that I could shatter and leave my broken pieces under your pillow
and you still would not dream of me
So don’t
use your heart like a fist
because life is not poetry
I am not a metaphor
I’m not a phrase
an expression or an exclamation
I’m not a simile and I’m certainly not a hyperbole
But I’d rather have ink on my hands than blood
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
i wonder if any of the same hair when we first got together is still on my head
it's a weird thought
maybe the very last centimeters
hair cuts
hair dye
remember when my ex cut my hair?
remember both times i cut my hair to my shoulders or above?
i wonder where the hair is that you first touched
several hair brushes
scattered on pillows and old sheets
washing machines
wherever i go my hair will leave
damage
breakage
fall out from stress
somewhere, right now is the old me
or breaking down in the soil
now i am so artificial
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
"Each day is a gift and not a given right."
Stop taking what you have for granted
Appreciate the little things
Everything means something
Everyone wants to feel they're wanted
"Leave no stone unturned"
Try everything once, maybe twice
Look everywhere for opportunities
Never ignore what you truly believe
Remember, this is YOUR life
"Leave your fears behind"
What's the point in being scared
There's always a possibility for pain
Without some breakage, there's no gain
But never jump in blind or unprepared
"Try to take the path less traveled."
Never follow the worn rut in the ground
Make a new, curved path
Leave the past in the past
There's still something amazing left to be found
"If Today Was Your Last Day"
Would you be ashamed of the steps you've followed?
Would you regret some things from the past?
Would you do anything to take those things back?
Don't, just rejoice, smile. There's no time in life to wallow.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Now our Yesteryear
You can’t put your finger on it but a shift has occurred neighborhoods are different
A few clues lay in the losses delivery to the home what delivery thats just it
Doctor’s house calls milk delivery neighborhood grocer even the mail is indifferent
Anyone want to get close and peek in a nylon mail bag oh but those great leather ones
Milk delivery I don’t care if I whistle smile or sing carrying a bottle of store bought milk
Where is the feeling Phil’s dad use to float or blast out of the door and sweet clinking bottles
Sure you can drop plastic no breakage just an idiot plop who cares we all might as well drink silk
They called it progress change they forgot one more sad word that is so fitting empty
East end grocer barrel full of kites rolls of string or Cecil doing long addition on a paper sack
What about the Quonset hut on west third with a tree that’s wonder fingers touch to assure if real
Ever feel comfort in a giant store feel as you know any one if only there was a button to take us back
Oh to big of a hurry for all that let one materialize see the stampede and kindness would flourish again
We have more they never bothered to explain that with so much misery is part of the package
Front porch social gatherings it’s just what you race a cross in this quantum age
Do you remember those long summer days somehow it would draw from us the hidden sage
All can refuse with effort we can stop this insanity with more heart we can turn back the page
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
---
poetry. folded into my back
pocket dark garnet pages are
left frayed and friable like
leaves on the bottom
of a teacup
poetry. stancion of
formed glass emptied of
its torch by breakage
each shard a grain
of obsidian
sand
poetry. lamp of a great
beast structure struggling to
find its way through the labyrinth
Minotaur myths blackness
camera obscura to a feast of souls
who's meat is dusty tomes
skeletons in tombs
choking on their crusts of
parchment owls
poetry. oil of anointing
for to wrap the Christian
alive as he burns in
the garden of
Caligula
i am poetry. all of these
am i. a paper soul clipped
from an origami bird's wing
frayed like a homemade
leaf but never
empty
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
you plan to trap
to take a cut-
a ripening peach
with sugar bait?
you soil yourself
remove all sense
when all you have
you desecrate
her body sees, her body sees
'I'll take it now
she's just the size
to make me big
bend over chick
for she won't see
to mists she'll flee
I'll do a trick
with my joystick'
her inside sees, her inside sees
it's not all past
in spurting spray
a laughing squirt
bull at a gate
to steal a bud
the harshest crime
to rob a child
her life dictate
her body tells, her body tells
for it is seen
and registered
it's catalogued
in Judge's file
the breakage raw
her broken selves
you callous brute
are facing trial
and all can see
as you do now
the lies you told
you **********
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 5:41 AM UTC
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
With blood in her veins and heat circulating through her frame,
You could compare her to a furnace.
Carrying energy throughout her body and distributing it evenly where it’s needed.
It’s the pressure, the turbulence, the years of experience that molds and forges her heart into the form it takes.
Her heart is made of ceramic, shaped into a wide-mouthed or funnel-enclosed hollow and glazed with painted flowers, or abstract patterns, or tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts.
Her heart is the fortune of archaeologists and antiquarians alike, the field of study of historians, the apple of poets’ eyes. They seek to wipe every speck of dust that obscures every stroke, every detail, every scar and fracture they seek to decode.
Because as beautiful as ceramic can be, it is brittle and delicate and easily fractures as hearts do. Because if there’s one thing ceramic and hearts have in common, they can only withstand a certain amount of stress for so long.
Because every scar tells a story. No visible fracture can be just a fantasy.
A scratch from heartbreak, a mark from rejection, a line from quarrel. A scar from unrequited love, a scar from a failed test mark, a scar from falling over while biking. A breakage from inner demons.
We are the same. We suffer the same.
Yet the painted flowers, the abstract patterns, the murals telling tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts, they all elude us, because we’re inclined to focus on the debris before us.
We’d rather walk around the debris, walk over the debris, avoid touching the debris when we’re well within our ability to repair and mend the debris.
Gold for recovery, silver for hope, platinum to mend her broken pieces.
Gold to crown her a winner, to declare her triumph.
Silver to ease her troubled mind, to give her hope anew.
Platinum to strengthen her, to enlighten her, to remind her that she can rise up again.
Golden joinery, or kintsugi, as the Japanese call it — it’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, or silver, or platinum, holding its fragments together by a tight bond. It’s meant to treat breakage and repair as part of the history of the object, rather than something to disguise.
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
Her heart is made of ceramic — and gold and silver and platinum intertwined, a story of heartbreak, rejection, and quarrel conquered by recovery, hope, and strength, and proof that she is more than her heartbreak, her rejection, her storms and trials and tribulations.
She is, quite literally, the cloud with a silver lining.
Her heart is art.
But it need not be displayed in a museum case, or in an antique shop window, or a gallery chamber.
Because she, in all of her beauty and grace, she is the museum case, the antique shop window, the gallery chamber.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
Narrower than anticipation...
and wider than its
happened hour,
otherness for day...
trailed by specificity.
Where the path may
be the breakage
of the heart, and
the step that mends it.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
She turns her head from it;
I turn my back to it;
It faces them in their deflection, they who are ruled by planetary alignment, they who spill rogue waves from calm mouths, just as the lace crashes and pools around bare legs and lips -
Any enigma free from transcription lies within the chasm, who sleeps buried deeply between two bodies, too deeply, it has been said, though perhaps for the best, as the truths who precede intent rest there as well.
We, the sea, urge in ad hominem, convinced of indelibility, consistent in breakage and dispersment of that which is built from and upon determined chaos.
Her, I, the sea.
Our madness.
I turn towards it; she turns to face it;
The sea has drawn it's long breath
We reach for the exhale with open palms, never closed, for the retreat is inevitable.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Nat writes:
so many eddies colliding on the surface of a mighty river
yes, there is something otherworldly here
yes, even sacred,
in the finest sense of that overburdened word
Ah, what you speak of is
the very eye of God.
I see it in a Kaleidoscope of color
perfectly balanced yet
confusing all the same,
and the beauty of it!
A chaotic comfort like adrenaline.
The simple confidence of the knowing
held together by a single point of reference.
His bright eye the Fulcrum
o_________________________o
^
between:
The Sacred and Profane,
teetering in perfect balance
(For now)
between:
Respiration (The In) and Exhalation (The Out)
He resides in the pause between breaths
between:
Air and Water
(The Earth hovers within)
between:
Eyes Open and Eyes Closed
We live and die within the blink(s)
between:
Connectivity and Breakage
(Our true desires at the watershed of)
between:
Out Loud and Silent
(One without the other drives men mad)
Again Nat writes:
*we exist,
we edit,
our eddies,
our overlapping lives,
in a never ending series
of Venn diagrams
all delicately balanced
at a single point*
So perfectly stated.
The very eye of God.
Here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=rVKRRzaf21U
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 1:56 PM UTC
There is this tiny hole
In the very center
So tiny and so unnoticeable
Unfeelable
but
There are moments
When instantaneous grief strikes
Me down
down
drowning
And I can't breathe
And it hurts
To the point of
breakage
The mask shatters
With the touch
Of salty liquid
That escapes from my
eyes
I am utterly
Blinded by emotions
Or lack there of
Over things that are
uncontrollable
And that anger
It builds
Because I never knew why
you
left.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
She stayed no more the one for whom I stayed restless,
She stayed no more the one for whom I stayed restless.
Now who shall be my awaited - I am now loveless,
In whose anticipation now - for whom shall I stay restless?
She stayed no more the one for whom I stayed restless,
She stayed no more the one for whom I stayed restless.
Hey Kay Sera Sera,
What had to happen it happened not for my bad,
What happened it was written in my destiny bad.
That false reliance was broken for good,
False reliance it was so broken for good.
Now who shall be my awaited - I am now loveless,
She stayed no more the one for whom I was restless.
She stayed no more...
A garden is not made barren by breakage of a bud,
A bud being broken makes not the garden barren.
The garden has many more flowers so very varied,
Now who shall be my awaited - I am now loveless,
She stayed no more the one for whom I was restless.
She stayed no more...
Failed love - wasted romance is not my entire life,
My life is not just unsuccessful love and romance.
If I wake up with a positive mind and smiling face,
I will get a thousand more and I need not wait for her.
Whom shall I wait for now on and for whom shall I be restless?
Now who shall be my awaited - I am now loveless,
She stayed no more the one for whom I was restless.
She stayed no more...
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
I saw it through the breakage on the pane
Through the cleavage on the drapes
From the back window I saw it
A man has never been this low I promise
You are the architect of your choices
You are a sum of your choices
I remember the boom
I remember the bass
The Shads of glass
She closed her eyes
She wished it pass
Anywhere but here
He grabbed her hand
She screamed and cried
He pushed her to the ground not a sound with his finger on his lips
As he proceeds gabbing her hips
She tries to push him off
But he was too strong
Just like her dad they were brothers afterall
But I said to myself
It ain't a nothing that a baseball bat or golf club couldn't solve
I ram on the door with my shoulder
I heard her cry out to God to save her
But he didn't answer
Something about free will as usual
He ripped her *******
He Unzipped his pants
Every ****** peaked a scream with his hand on her mouth
Until she became numb to it her resistance faded out...
She lied there like a piece of meat
Motionless not even a blink
And every tear that drifted to her chin from her eyes
Slitted a vein and artery in my heart
She was only 13, couldn't comprehend what had happened to her
Your honor
He was drunk, one too many bourbon
He's a man, ultimately human
You know how men are
Boys will be boyz
It's her fault for being drop dead gorgeous
Way too presumptuous
Not taking precautions
Too kind, too friendly, too nice
When those eyes that outshine the stars
Looked at him!
They were asking for it.
A beautiful suicide to an ugly life
A tender touch to a hurtful bruise
Am sorry I couldn't breakthrough the metaphorical glass door to you
Am sorry for what I did to you.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
The dryer died today
followed by, the four slice toaster
There can be, just no way
as belly up, the electric roaster
My oven is on the fritz
my fridge just doesn't work
Car is giving me the fits
hope, I'm not sounding like a ****
Made in China or Taiwan
quality, that's sorely lacking
Mower broke, can't mow the lawn
my devices, they've been hacking
It's got to be by design
the breakage, and destruction
I don't really mean to whine
maybe, it's a problem, in production
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
as he sat soft beside me.
“Sure,” I said, with ill feeling.
My instinct was not to cross my friend,
I had too few left.
I nodded to the Ape behind the bar and he obliged
with one lemon & ginger and one green tea.
He knows his regulars well
and we know we’d need to wait til later for anything stronger.
“Look,” he said, and I turned to see
a gap and I counted the two teeth that were missing -
no, not missing - he opened his hand
and there they were, both accounted for,
safe and secure in his grey leathery palm.
“Look,” he repeated, (a little slurred this time)
and turned his fist so I could see
the missing skin and the bruises
that gave testimony to his amateur status.
His ****** grin and wet laughter
shook the silverback back into action
and we got a plate of malted milks.
Like I say, he knows his regulars well
and he’d listened when I told him
where he could get a regular supply,
direct from Staffordshire, in the UK.
“Lo-ok,” he said (more hesitant this time)
and lifted his shirt a little to reveal the knife wound,
replete with knife, buried to the hilt.
“Loo-,“ he started to say, as he slid off the bar stool
taking his tea with him, the porcelain shattering on the stone floor.
I winced – the cups had been a gift
to the Ape from my mother.
‘Why should the chimps get all the best crockery?’ she’d explained.
“I’ll pay for the breakage,” I said
and the Ape nodded his furrowed brow
as he swung round to grab the dustpan and mop.
I drank my tea,
counting off the friends that remained.
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
I knew the woman at the Shopper's Drug Mart had never had her heart broken when she kicked me out of the hair aisle for slathering shampoo onto my chest for I was hoping that the suds would seep into my skin and find their way to my heart.
The label on the bottle read "anti breakage" and I just couldn't resist a try.
It didn't work however.
Possibly because the skin that stretches across my rib cage is no longer flesh, but scar tissue.
Or maybe its because I see the world in metaphors.
I am a Chinese flower *** and my cracks are full of gold.
My heart is a quilt made of mix-matched fabric of flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions.
I am the paradox of the bumblebee who hurts herself way more to sting than to stay.
But I am too complicated to me a metaphor.
I am a human, flawed and fabulous, still trying to find out why I'm here and too naive to see I'll never know.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC