Saturday, 9 June 2018


I'm in bed. I've spent the evening watching a two part documentary about Elvis Presley. I was curious to see what there might be to say that is new, and of course, there's nothing. But it's all still worth saying. What a great soul.

I fell asleep for a while and missed the sad years c 1962-1966.  While I slept I had again a dream I've had at least three or four times over the past two weeks. In this dream I am asleep on a bed, naked, and cold, and there is a large, long, smooth torpedo of a slug moving down across my shoulder towards my opposite armpit. The slug is colder than I am and it is very wet. It feels like a body of water gliding, ever so gently, over my skin. I can't move or wake up. But I like it.

I realise I said I was done with the gloves but then I kept on seeing more of them. Why fight it. Perhaps it is redemption.

In the first real blast of winter, afternoon teas begin to exhibit a stark quality, as the serious business of ingesting sugar as efficiently as possible emerges, stark and backlit like a bare tree outlined against the white sky.

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