one more unattended pituary gland= coming over the hill, handbag in one hand, whaler’s harpoon in the other. It calls, with the eerie, sad sound of a peacock? ”Oh All hallows dissenters, rest not until the deed is done!” and then diisapears into the yellow mist.
Wedges of blue cheese unimportantly placate each other, climbing, ever climbing.
Now the move is done – last steps under the sun – I trust – my products are second to none – no untrustful beatitudes – unlikely to calm sodden souls, unlikely to reap what they sow – a million glow-worms bedeck the night wrapped ocean-liner with a false dawn