My Diary

I heard the door slam shut in my breakfast cereal box and then saw my silver spoon reflect the same horizon from a multitude of different Centuries; I made myself a cup of tea as a sense of Thirteenth Century gloom descended the Twenty First Century sky. I hollowed out a log knowing full well that June would be out all day and the person from down the road – who exists only as a large head with small limbs issuing from it – wouldn’t call without an invitation (customarily wrapped in a piece of an old hippie’s kaftan). With the log I travelled up stream on a river of piano keys, taking care not to land on a black square where the cellophane people could catch you and tie you to a plastic dragon’s tail. I was standing like the last tree of an ancient wood when a young sapling knocked on the door.

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