If there is anyone there would they kindly make themselves known. No peeking. Put down the pasteboard mask. Be forthcoming. The floorboards creak and I see footprints forming in the the flour I cunningly scattered earlier. This is a strange old house. the rusty pipes rattle even when the bluebirds sing. I wish I had rainbows but at this time of life that can hardly be expected. Maybe the captain will show up soon. I've missed him; lets be honest about this. He was never my lover but his thin rapier makes me squeal. The river runs slowly through its grey banks of piled up mud- slickly shining in the arc lights of the motorway.
If there were anything here but the phonebook I would eat it, but the grey dawn is rising over Katmandu and all the little Buddhas are singing- peep, peep, peep, peeep. I like them. they are so fat and frolicsome. See them in the afternoon- how they dance and play. The latest installment of my favourite soap is late in coming. I haven't ever watched it before. Perhaps the murderer will be apprehended. I would like to see them chase him as in that film of Kurosawa's through fields of flowers. that is life, isn't it? How sweet and ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssstream lined it all is. And the schoolgirls bat the shuttlecock to one another with high looping screams.