Raphe, If I were a better man, I'd have something sensible to tell you about your wretched triangle. As it is, I'm just a pimp with a hat full of object models, design surfaces, and unproven theories about information transfer. Were you to kick me squarely in the groin, I wouldn't protest. Already I've failed you, before I've even attempted to arrive at any sort of coherent point. Where was I when you scored the game-winning touchdown, or when you got a D in linear algebra? Good taste dictates that I remain silent, but Fume Blanc has me prattling on. You want to rap about the Tao, not the Dow, and I'm hip to that. It's just that twenty-seven, God! It may seem like a full two million minutes ago, but time grows geometrically, and before you know it, the faces begin to blend together, and everything sounds like German. I don't want to hurt you, Raphe, but I must be frank. -Sean