Wild Oats
It's been a while. We're running out of ethnics, of Paula Radcliffe jokes, of bad puns and holsters. It's June. It's Summer. That was April. That was May.
I'm feeling thoughtful and queasy and pained. No matter of orthopaedic chairs soothe my back like a soothing hand or a silken baby octopus would. It's a Thursday afternoon. Behind me, the Steine pulses, like the hollow tummy of one longing for a baby.
Two months of silence; Where have we been? A flurry of media-whoring, both literally and metaphorically. Going to France to a houseful of owls, riding on a broken stairlift. There will be time, there will be time.
I'm feeling thoughtful and queasy and pained. No matter of orthopaedic chairs soothe my back like a soothing hand or a silken baby octopus would. It's a Thursday afternoon. Behind me, the Steine pulses, like the hollow tummy of one longing for a baby.
Two months of silence; Where have we been? A flurry of media-whoring, both literally and metaphorically. Going to France to a houseful of owls, riding on a broken stairlift. There will be time, there will be time.
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 8:34 AM
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