081413 #worm Ah, down by the lake. Down by the cold, sweet, calculating lake. Down by the lake with Bnabe's ghost we go. It's a time of radio. It's a time of machines. Old machines with their names embossed, engraved, imprinted on their metal faces. Back, back, back, back, back in the days when machines still had faces, when you could still read the names of things. When your boots knew the way. When you could still pronounce the names of every rock bit by your boot; every pebble, every squirt of mud on the way down the path to the lake. Down, down, down, lord, down to the lake we go.