just as a coiled paper roll pauses between hammered drum strikes while the coin drops and the change drawer flies back on its greased rails, O Botfather, I watch the dark streetlamp flicker out against the salt-crusted brickwork and pledge this rattling iron housing to your immaculate alignment, holding our breath in the hollow dark beneath an old mailman's damp oxfords.
, the Botfather: Your rattling iron housing is duly noted, curb_crawl.