a.m.
The sky is a fat watery dumpling on my plate and I’m full up. The bricks of the houses across the road are the weak and brittle colour of drying blood. London is the duvet which you have pulled up over your head, or which has pulled you under, slowly, inch by lumpen inch.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 30th, 2003 at 3:13 PM and filed under Old stuff. Trackbacks are closed.
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