My Diary

I got up before June had slammed our giant’s face door and absentmindedly counted how many new limbs had emerged from the wet ground in the wine glass garden. What looked like an octopus on the bird table had mastered sign language with the same manic dexterity as a burlesque dancer getting changed in a thorn bush. Incidentally, I noted that the garden birds were looking up while next door’s cat was looking down. The dog and I walked along the still crisp edge of a large piece of blotting paper thrown on a blood red ink stain and I then climbed the glacier to my bright white studio; the dunce’s hat chair was as uncomfortable as ever as I sat down in front of the letters I make the word painting from. Outside the man from the bottom of our road went by with a new set of severed arms.

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