. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The many in choosing a life fit for cattle exhibit themselves as totally slavish. The cat sat on the mat. Monday is the one day guaranteed to provoke the funky side of life. Life is a cliche. Just so, as they say. I can now find my way to most places, once off the plane, boat or train, car or camel. Transit is posh-nosh for a tramp, tourists are head over heels in love for a couple of weeks, slaves for 50 years, then wrinkles on a variation of memories, signifying nothing. Christchurch-south, down the 1 x 2 rivers, first right, then stop at 5-ways, a place called Winslow; 3 silly lines on a page yet half a planet and a mortgage for the average vagabond to find, maybe once in a lifetime and a lottery-load of luck for a luminary toying as you do with a sad-sack of What ifs. I hear a self-assured youngster yelling, That’s not the way! Indeed. Our road forth is filled with twists and holes, fairytales, and devilish nights of frigid detail. The measure makes good men traitors and the deep, loud and mean. And as it turns out measures inspiration a patriot that rejects and resents uniformity. Which is the business end of a dog? Jolly Folly — notes on ewe & eye PS This was penned before reading your mail earlier, it’s always good to receive some news and hear how things are over your way; you seem to manage well, I yearn to be polite, beg you to pass the salt and pepper, only to be sold good manners that cost the earth and said might get better when the sheep get heavy on dry grass. love you T .
