My Diary

June went to work moments before I got out of our Viking long boat bed (the dog was still sleeping). I made the Noah’s ark trip to my studio with my thoughts travelling ahead of me like beams of light made manifest in a dusty room; I touched the hem of the imaginary ornate Georgian curtains (in our imaginary Georgian house – Jane Austen lives next door) and then pulled the paint stained curtains of reality apart. Outside people I don’t know met with the precision of apparent friendship and I settled down to work in my Carboniferous swamp studio with giant dragonflies whirring overhead dreaming of making fossil fuel. I turned on an almost silent radio as an unknown orator spoke in honour of all the people who had never woken up from their happiest dream.

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