My Diary: Pitching A Tent On The Isle Of Avalon

I got up a little later than usual,‭ ‬a bicycle last seen in a fitness film from the Nineteen Thirties wrapped round my neck.‭ ‬June was trying to disentangle herself from the various parts of a French horn which was used only moments before in a rehearsal for the Last Judgment‭ (‬apparently one of the angels fluffed her lines‭)‬.‭ ‬I went out into the zombie plant garden to work like a machine while June stayed indoors wrapped in song lyrics and lifting ornaments into the air before putting them down again a millimetre or two out of line.‭ ‬When it got too cold I came in myself to be embalmed in colours and click letters into ideas and then ideas into tangible forms‭ ‬-‭ ‬some of the forms I later found were spelt wrong‭ (‬I mentioned this to a man with traffic lights for a head:‭ ‬he said stop as his face went green‭)‬.

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