I took the loopy-bloopy off the banker, and stood for a moment, lost. I've had weeks to work on this. Well, I wish to fix the broken. Java, you're up. And this mess. Every created thing rises from chaos. As if to help, high winds blew out of the Pit, raising the ghosts of a hundred carvings. The new one will come from this pyrite-laced soapstone. I shall be black, with a hint of glitter.