two and a half inches of colour and almost 497 to review and critique, like it’s some tiny tots culture show on speed, I’m gauging out the eyes of urbanites with a rusty balloon and projecting life experiences onto a whitewashed lockup in Baslidon, where we’ve collected the lives of the south and kicked them into the corner by an upturned banana crate and a discharged fire extingiusher, as the detrius of the summer collects under our fingernails and we scrape it away with the end of the kitchen devil we’re about to cut the brie with.
you should allow yourself 3 and a half hours to complete at least 2 of these tasks and assume that you’ll be hanging inches from a wet cleric at some point, where the wires meet the trees and the plastic tokens are reserved for the fat ladies in heels who are trit-trotting across the car park like some jaded gibbons in drag. there’ll be a point where you inclip yourself from the earth and will scrape your ligaments on a moon crater where bill schmidt or whatever his name was collected enough rock to build a pretty nice moon rockery in the front garden where the water just floats about instead of cascading serenely over the stones. he was a scientist, you see, not an astronaut. that’s your trouble. you’re an idiot, not an astronaut.
an a clear day last week we saw Jupiter and four moons but I didn’t get any of that, so I’m sticking with the carp that gummed my fingers and the airport pole with the dead man’s hooks on. 3 hours later the props are spinning, so let’s get out of here. we left a cup of coffee on the chest of drawers and turned into bad cheese. that’ll learn me. hahaha.