It was raining rain coats outside as I got up as a road sign in the middle of a field. June was a garden pond in the middle of a lake and we talked like a chair meeting a long lost table. I had to go to the atomic nucleus town to orbit like an electron with my long eared friend. I left him in an ink spot jungle and came home with punctuation marks sounding like howler monkeys in the rainy distance. Luckily before I came to the end of the page I collected him again: he had the face of Mark Twain sucking on a straw and I had the face of a straw sucking on Mark Twain. June had become a viaduct in the interim and was spanning a valley in a black and white photograph; I reciprocated by becoming a trestle table in a coloured print . We both answered the telephone as a machine.