Right. End of an era. After a vain month of waiting for LJ-support to get back to me about the problems with the now-unsupported style Refried Paper, I have changed my livejournal style for the first time since I started this thing at the very end of 2004. I wasted about two hours tonight trying to make the new one resemble my dear dead style as much as possible in color, font, and layout, but I didn't have the coding proficiency to make it look anything but awkward. So, scaling back, does anyone have suggestions on the following tweaks: wider margins, no underlining of links, and current music listed directly under post title? The new style appears to be called "Army Attire." It may well change again.
2016-06-06
I didn't sleep more than three hours last night. I dreamed I took the Devil out for his birthday.
A devil, anyway. He looked exactly the way you would expect a devil to look in a dream of mine: small, dark, a little shabby around the edges. A very quiet manner and a wistful smile. He had miscalculated the mass of a human body: I could pick him up in my arms like a toddler. He could sit on my shoulder like a cat. We must have looked like street theater, but nobody commented on it. I bought him flowers; they ended the night as a bunch of wilted irises tied with white string. We went to an all-night market and looked at heaps of fruit of all different seasons, but I don't recall that we left with any. We talked easily and enthusiastically, like people with common interests. I liked him immensely and knew that was dangerous; he smiled apologetically and never lost that breath-pricking edge of danger radiating from him like cold. Toward dawn, he slid off my shoulder and folded his hand into mine: it had been empty and then there was a stone in it, small and rounded and cool, translucently lavender-blue. I thought in the dream that it was chalcedony; awake, I think it must have been agate, like the Babylonian stamp seal in the MFA that I have coveted since I was very small. I knew there was nothing I could take from him safely. He knew it and offered anyway. I missed him when I woke, which I suppose is something the Devil relies on.
I woke and my e-mail was offline. At least I didn't have anything really planned for today past lots and lots of work. It looks nice outside.
A devil, anyway. He looked exactly the way you would expect a devil to look in a dream of mine: small, dark, a little shabby around the edges. A very quiet manner and a wistful smile. He had miscalculated the mass of a human body: I could pick him up in my arms like a toddler. He could sit on my shoulder like a cat. We must have looked like street theater, but nobody commented on it. I bought him flowers; they ended the night as a bunch of wilted irises tied with white string. We went to an all-night market and looked at heaps of fruit of all different seasons, but I don't recall that we left with any. We talked easily and enthusiastically, like people with common interests. I liked him immensely and knew that was dangerous; he smiled apologetically and never lost that breath-pricking edge of danger radiating from him like cold. Toward dawn, he slid off my shoulder and folded his hand into mine: it had been empty and then there was a stone in it, small and rounded and cool, translucently lavender-blue. I thought in the dream that it was chalcedony; awake, I think it must have been agate, like the Babylonian stamp seal in the MFA that I have coveted since I was very small. I knew there was nothing I could take from him safely. He knew it and offered anyway. I missed him when I woke, which I suppose is something the Devil relies on.
I woke and my e-mail was offline. At least I didn't have anything really planned for today past lots and lots of work. It looks nice outside.
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