Well, I must say I never expected that. When the walls started climbing this time there was minimal distress. I've become so used to the treacle and toffee and bile and dances. Show me the way, he said.
"Before anything can begin you have to prepare. Oh my god yes. Sweet jesus. Hah. Outside this room ain't nothing real. You can talk about your Westminster and your Corporation of London but right now fuck you. Fuck you and your gifts."
What would Poppins say? There's a question. We are all stuck to the wall; pale, pasted, intensified, pastoral. When this window sinks behind the clothesline there's nowhere further to go. May this side ever be marked. A strategy presents itself: Sleep. Oh yes: sleep.
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