Category: Literature

Filthy weather today.

Last night however was the first misty fog, to be distinguished from distant sky fog. It was most George Eliot down on Broadway. Especially with a bellyful of chips and laughter of a Co Limerick woman beside me.

I forgot 3.3.

The first time I forgot 2.6.

Once they’re forgot I can’t go back.

It’s not whittering, it’s transacting.

You always mix up where and were.

We’re getting tired of all this whittering.

Is the 11 needing to be a 35 the actual truth?

Or where you happy to suggest the 11 – 35 was the reason you might be fairing so poorly?

Wasn’t the actual truth that after that one or two born again sequences

that you lost it again. You were the hesitant statue of agnosticism I think.

Remember how she said you had a great standing back handspring?

See standing.

That’s what statues do.

Statues don’t link, do they?

They don’t weave across the floor muttering sentences.

Actually there was a moment before it

Where I had a little chat with myself about what the doctor said about the 11 needing to be a 35.

Then I said even if the 11 didn’t need to be a 35

I still would have to lie down

I noted it was the back of my head this time that beat

From the back of my head the heat made its was round to my face

that was what I noted.

It’s true I lay down again.

But first I went to lay down and hesitated.

I returned.

When I lay down, well I really laid down.

We’re noting a conspicuous absence of movement off the floor. So you intend to leave it like that do you?

We know you went back.

We suspect you lay down again didn’t you?

We are between overcast and fog, with a bit of a dangle in the leaves.