Friday, July 26, 2013

The wolves

There is a sense in which everything is coloured by the in-between-ness of one's life.

Yes.

And that whenever one tries to pick one's self up, one is suddenly brought to a halt.

By the wolves, mother?

Yes. By history. Philip. Ill-positioned cutlery. The whole bally upside down circus that's banged around in my head since the accident.

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