My Diary

Long hair was trailing all over the garden as I opened the curtains to count the money boxes sheltering on the window ledge; I remembered pictures of soldiers in uniforms of the early Nineteenth Century as I rearranged the empty cans so that their lids reflected the light into one tiny square in the centre of the room. I was the guitar player and I walked in vain trying to find a few square centimetres of camouflage to hide under (the spirit percussionist wasn’t available to play a tune on a puddle at the road edge).

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