Good god, give me those magazines. At least they’ll whine about
the same old Men I’m always forgetting. Do you smell something? Lovey?
The sign says, I think, No Spitting. Look at these crossword puzzles —
see how they insinuate furry temples to Apollo for us? Go
sing about that! And oh (while still in learning mode) be buggered
all night by knockabout lads called Eric in the back of the gang’s
Datsun! For ten quid you can buy leeches, possibly lychees,
from the Abyss! I’ve often wondered about
the answer it gives in sign language — sternly, whenever it’s asked
what day it is, or night. As youngsters we’d dash lips against it whenever
we felt unwanted and dear, that Mound we made was unstoppable. Lovey,
for god’s sake don’t start singing here. Just bury it under the wandering
signage with the androids on it by Hannah Höch. You’ve got to learn
to patrol it, and please, do something about that Wind.