My Diary

I had to go out before breakfast (customarily of computer parts and the lightening illuminated stubble of an empty field). I went out of the door in an artificial dust storm, making my invisible way to town hand in hand with a friendly rabbit; he called himself the sandman and then called me sleep. I told him of my time as an extra in a triptych by Bosch: pushed like an enema into a dying swan – in my own world the arrows in my flesh would become Raphael and La fornarina and the swan is forever orbiting Cygnus X-1. I came home again covered in stars like the mound of flower petals that my friends the daydream dryads sleep in. I entered my studio as a toupee having a respite from a bald head and painted a face on a hat and a house on a partially opened window letting the cold air in.

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