My Diary

I had to carry a bag of plastic body parts to the model maker who lives at the top of the ghost hill – next to the flour mill (which might explain the ghosts but not the werewolf in a wheelchair incising his initials in a human thigh bone). I stroked my increasingly black beard in the negative picture over the ice cold fire and then formulated the laws needed for a civilisation of intelligent great apes. The television in my tie was showing the adverts when a very short person emerged from under the counter and tried to sell me a stepladder for my dolls house. June entered the back door of the house after trying to lay a race track for coral polyps among the rows of ancient aircraft in the coat hanger garden – under the tor feature is a hot air balloon waiting for this country’s hour of need.

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