Maybe I have said this before, or

perhaps you will never know, for I can never show – to you – this vast treasure of leisure. No need. Seeds and ropes and not without hopes either, drunk on being selfed.

You and not you. Me the steady beam, the seam ingly granit trusted bicycle pumps and four reeled gigs.

Whirlygigs. I did not ask permission, there was no-one there to rule fictition

At the time. mime, crime, wime, sime, hyme –en tropé.


Y love is linga kwistic

Super cally fraile istic

And I shall exit piaely dotious. You can’t be too koshus.


What is new is that I do not want you ha! Be yourself! All I need is to have for a fleeting moment known you, interspersed my atoms with yours

Ephemeral attraction and the

Week force


Mundane, mundane.

Wordrobe

Wordrobe.

I am often pleasantly surprised by typing mistakes. This is a nice one. It made me want to stick it in this blog and I notice with alarm that I did not post anything in the first six months of the year. And yet I hanker. I think kind of continuously of vaguely things to put in here or write or about what is already here and the nice pictures and moments spent composing the posts and what will happen to it? Where will it all go?  I'm not planning to die immediately but I will die sometime and at least no-one will have to burn this or have it pulped...