Wednesday, 17 February 2010


Some blame the archaic laws of kismet, others, well they just kneel down and continue drinking from the stream.

'you shouldn't do that' says your mother. 'You never know what happened upstream.' Listen to her, she is wise.

Flies crawl across your dinner as you look on helpless.

A Jakana walks across the lily pads because its toes spread delicately, hardly exerting any pressure.

The jumper that she knitted begins to unravel and you begin to worry.

You smell a smell that you had forgotten. In the back of your loft, past the broken fixture, your old school bag lies.

Arabian in origin, cheap, synthetic. It takes you back and your heart grows heavy once more.

They say that there is a novel in all of us. You don't believe that.

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