Wednesday, 24 June 2015

I wore a bumbag to the fete, when I was eight

Twenty-minute gasps of freedom, or thereabouts. Whilst I push candied eggs into your mouth, and wonder what on earth this is all about. I can't contain my silent raging collapse. Perhaps, I've let my better judgement lapse, as I've taken to poking around the traps, turning off or on random people's taps. I get excited by the wind now, how it blows, the dust no longer affects my nose, so I sleep and so the time it goes.

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