My Diary

I got up early and travelled the length of a pencil from the mark it made on the paper to the forefinger which had become the eleventh commandment. I stood in a hand print made in very old soil and looked up – the face looking down had flying doves for eyes and its mouth mimed the words to a song about the black magic of childhood. I proposed having more than one childhood to the old person assembly but no one listened. I made the figure of Christ from a piece of balsa wood as the room emptied – I later added wings and it flew almost the entire way to the Thirteenth Century church door. I said goodbye to the fresco figure in a dozen different ways and went to catch my rocket bus home. To the amusement of the slow walkers the fast cars moved in tight circles – no one got very far.

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