there. in the woods.
who’s that at this time. ah. parcelforce. I’m not yet awake but already I’m dribbling onto my slippers as I wrap down the stairs where a small green peasant fills the door frame looking like an algorithm through the frosted glass. it matters not a trifle what therein lies but to a trojan horse its a numb colostomy of sponges that pop and crackle as you lose the fight to hold up your trousers. it might be the poster print of jane asher or maybe the children’s business cards but whatever firebox is unearthed with the flick of your stanley it’s the stuff that counts. pop. pop. to the bathroom.
if there’s a community webspherical for squeezing cats in jars then it’s no small wonder that the forums are agog with blather about pack. brain squatters have been ranking until their remote arm hurts. video. rank. submit.