My Diary

June came home from work feeling ill, she flopped like an eagle while I was searching for native Americans on the brim of General Custer’s hat. I had to work in a glass globe like a lost mariner while she spread herself as a duvet on a Himalayan bed. I straddled real and unreal worlds with a string of images although I knew the alumni of mathematics had been talking by the column of numbers rising quietly in the corner of the studio – I still counted myself lucky. June felt a little better by the end of the day and winked back at the single eye in an otherwise featureless face (I cultivated the look of a twelve inch record deck). Standing in front of myself with paint stains not matching I knew I had the knack of turning the page of the day before everyone had finished reading.


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