The darkest days descend, perhaps so that embers might be read; like leaves left in night's teacups. An old maid alone on the balcony of a seaside resort rocks herself to the verge of sleep and there hosts the most spectacular party of them all. Cackling invitations to anyone who happens to hear, in obscure Cyrillic anagrams. (Anna turns to Graham and asks, "Shall we?" Cyril follows behind, half-smoking a cigarette, half-wondering how it came to this.
Lire la suite
The darkest days descend, perhaps so that embers might be read; like leaves left in night's teacups. An old maid alone on the balcony of a seaside resort rocks herself to the verge of sleep and there hosts the most spectacular party of them all. Cackling invitations to anyone who happens to hear, in obscure Cyrillic anagrams. (Anna turns to Graham and asks, "Shall we?" Cyril follows behind, half-smoking a cigarette, half-wondering how it came to this. Anticlimactic climate. Wearing weary like so many xmas trees, no wait, holly bushes, clever, oh too tools loot.) Time? One two noon. "Already?" Such sensitive savoury bonds fellows. Treble revels, interparliamentary. Tremblingly resembles an infused fuss. Impossible imposters on the Canterburied Line call "Nighty Night, Nightie Knight.... Mikey Georgeson sings "Forever, Forensic & Too Few" Dave Goolkasian sings "Boulevards In Blume" Aug Stone writes the songs These two songs recorded by Ian Catt
