My Diary: The Hairs On My Arms Become Advertising Hoardings

I started the day wondering why I lived in a place where even ghosts have to wear thick coats,‭ ‬the east wind sand blasting my forehead as I opened the front door to man who had only recently proclaimed himself king.‭ ‬As I don’t recognise royalty I shut it again wearing a long cloak and holding a sickle‭ ‬-‭ ‬he left a note in the letter box and I then left a note by a gnarled old willow tree where the river Anton splits into as many parts as a sub-atomic particle collision‭ (‬incidentally I had thought about writing a play about atomic nuclei for an audience of orbiting electrons‭)‬.‭ ‬As the day curtain fell‭ (‬as usual trapping one of the performers on the wrong side‭) ‬June and I decided to go out‭ ‬-‭ ‬as a statement of ethereal intent we used the mirror instead of the door.

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