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bolts 1
bolts 1 by Tim Caynes

nothing happens in your town even though the windmill looks grand I went there a few times a while ago when I was running from a mad person and often we’re back there stamping through the clouds while we’re negotiating dykes and sluices and wondering how the hell we get to the deli on the blind corner and we find ourselves in the living room of a mother and son cafe society with fluffy cushions and bad rugs and we have to use their own bathroom which is just too strange so we’ll just get some fish and press our noses up against the pottery and we’ll head to the car should we? yes, that’s the windmill, let’s go now

if I were you I’d just drop a few letters so you get more sticky and then with a couple of plums and a shooting stick it’s off to the smoke for a good drubbing with a pointy stick and standard issue boot polish I’ll spit in your eye get over it but whatever got it to the point where you become acceptable then I’ve got nothing left to lose so we’ll all go missing for a while and when the sails creak around on the empty shell and there’s nothing left to stop us then maybe we’ll take the s-class down to brighton and crash the imperial hotel with our caps and scarves. you must be about version 3 by now and I know there’s a version 4 coming so don’t say no I wish I knew because that would just be lying and in that horrible dream where our lips met and daley thompson was doing back flips on the settee we remebered that there was always something more than this but we’d forgotten what it was even though I have that buzzing in my ear and a blister on my finger. I can’t be clearer that than, you know the way it goes.

look, a panda!

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