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  1. you hurt people for fun and your assessments of character are weak, which is a bad combination. of course im disgusting who cares. what's above all disgusting here is the fact you think you know that about me.
  2. i really really hate you for saying that.
  3. My Six Favourite Seasons (In Reverse Order) The scooter goes past. Shout out to the scooter, to the thin outer edges where the dream trails of into sheer representation: the kind of thing you wouldn’t want to take home to your mother, until you have to, and then, suddenly, like something out of another dream completely, you think, no, of course, it’s perfectly fine, I am, I will, and so on, that sort of irrecoverable thing, just a mood, teetering as usual in a certain direction. The thin, perplexed air, gathering all the while. Bathsheba to the left of things in the unvelvety clothes her mother must have thought yes about. So much for descriptive licence. They said, do what you like, write what you like, be what you like. On hearing this, I just disappeared, frankly. Give me a rule! Like in the Bible! But their faces had already turned inward, or to other faces, or other inner faces, who can tell, who who could tell would wish to force their telling into a sad, said thing? Not I. And the others are others. Then the moon tips: as though to wash one particularly irritating thing from its face – its own reflection, perhaps. It’s potential to have a reflection, more like. So there it goes, clearly visible from the window, down into the lake. Clumsy like a cow, but celestial – flying, birchy white colour – all the same. More likely the whole thing just a self-corroborating reminder that I should do the dishes now, or at least walk in that direction. Now, though, Bathsheba really is naked. She is given the where are your clothes now Bathsheba questionnaire which she leaves wholly blank. Unsmiling, squatting low in the new wilderness of yes, I do have a body, what now, motherfucker? The trees disappear at the thought. A spoon hangs so low that I can’t help but think what is going on here, though, really? At which the spoon does nothing. The dream of a conscious process which would make things go back slowly to their origins, at least to a place of rest, is a fucked-up dream, one which I would stop dreaming completely if I could. But you can’t, whispers the spoon, before diving deep into the honey pot and floating towards my mouth. Oh God, someone take me home! Glib sorrowtude. The word home written in sand, but upside-down, and walked over thousands of times until it wasn’t ever written there – and then the sea, also, encroaches, returns the sand to its favourite condition – extreme flatness. You were eating ice-cream all the while, trying not to, but waiting hopefully for the moment when the ice-cream gets all over your face and the person employed to lick any ice-cream off walks over to you slowly from outside the car-park, the cliff top, the sandy country I’d move to in a second if someone would just say okay, fine.
  4. thank you. there are a couple of bits where i think it really needs the word but - so that it flows, but that word but doesn't fit in those places, or not the word but, there are places where it kind of skips as though there should be a word, dunno. it's cos i worked over kept changing things and when you do that the rhythm kind of dies but maybe it doesn't need a proper rhythm
  5. It must have been at the age of five or similar, when actions are irrecoverable, that I made the decision to write, a decision no amount of attempted revocations have revoked, of course my child-self wanted not only to write, but to be a writer, he smiled at the thought, or more likely at the word, a writer, a confident, child’s smile, and now I smile back at him, but weakly, a smile by which I attempt to deceive him, to suggest that it came to pass, that the plot lines have been flowing from me strongly and consistently, it is an attempt at a satisfied smile, but as I smile it occurs to me that the old question, what you wish you could tell your five-year-old self, is in my case – and probably secretly in the case of everyone – inverted, instead I am interested in what my five-year-old self would tell me, of course I can’t even guess, if only some line of communication would open up between me now and him then, he would be a constant source of plot, a wild flow just requiring a little external constraint to realise their potential, the bleak editorial mind of maturity, in fact it wouldn’t be a line of communication at all, if I had my way, rather a kind of one-way future-to-past opening, down which I would eavesdrop, but of course it isn’t possible, probably that is why he smiled in the first place, anticipating it all, sabotaging it from the beginning, withholding all possible plotlines in the tightly curled up ball of his brain, no, I don’t think it is so simple, his smile is more ironic than amused, more likely he was excited to see what would emerge if he kept all the plots to himself, what would remain of literature, he wanted to witness the reflexive ‘experiments’ – he winces at the word, but acknowledges its usefulness – that would exist in lieu of what he withheld, hoping that possibly, if the convolutions were tight enough, a little light might somehow make its way back to him – as down the facing mirrors of a periscope, right down to the sea bed – a gentle warmth there for a moment at the centre of his soft, boyish forehead. somehow can't get it right
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