My Diary

June and I walked up the hill in another knife blade morning; I came back as the only paper chain person with writing on – I couldn’t read myself so I asked my friend Leonardo (he was casually smoking his beard outside our back door). As he coughed up a design for the world’s first above ground mine shaft I began my working day inside a tube of paint: red and green merging as black on a pristine white palette. As the picture convalesced on the coast in a Georgette Heyer novel (the quiet plain girl eventually shone like a nuclear explosion although they didn’t know what this was in the early Nineteenth Century) I hung a bee hive from a hang glider and then stood in a goal mouth as a herd of rhinoceri propelled the Dr Strangelove ball my way.

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