Haven’t see each other since the last full moon. I’m invisible now, you know. My new app covers all of this – and diamond, coal, sand, dust. Grandmother is in Las Vegas playing round with self-harm manuals. Sequins, five gallon hat. Last saw her on Formby Beach in ’55. Changing careers from head to hand? William Morris is coughing, sneezing, it’s bad for the chest (see Heart). We are asked the usual questions; preferences – ‘a dolphin? a choc cake? cactus?. Children understand toilets, they choose good-natured fixtures and fittings. Useful, high-pitched. Sicily without mafia was boring. Beauty has its own app now as well. He’s tired of the Levels. Splices hardwood, on a blank screen. Good job we all congregate along our picaresque spectrum. They look shocked; he shouldn’t have mentioned the eruptive break in continuity. It’s the hot crisps. It’s soup. It’s her birthday. How old? Still growing.

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