I had to trace a line to the machine gun town, ricocheting off the stone fortifications by the bridge: very near the monument put up by the wasp queen in memory of the bee hive people - I dropped a fish hook instead of a coin and made a wish. I flew home as a king bee and made art into honey. As the candle shortened a voice echoed round my ancient burial mound studio and I imagined a cave mouth with stalactites and stalagmites as teeth; someone changed the channel and large yellow balls rebounded around an otherwise empty space (it was while attempting to follow these that all horizons suddenly became diagonal and neither I or the strange being still stalking me could stand upright). I would have never found my feet if June hadn’t changed channel again to watch the late news.
My Diary: Bowels Made From Service Lifts Taken From Grand Hotels
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