Time has become precious as i marvell at moments and try to recognise myself in myriad of possible incarnations.
As i tried in vain to keep dead leaves from the entrance and wild summer winds push glass doors ajar and the fluctuating barometric pressure signaled thick grey lurching forward up in the sky my heart threw its self on the floor and screamed for my attention. Amongst shrills of an angry telephone, the dry scrape of lead pencil skirting along perfectly lined booking paper and pressence of souls in various moments of expression gently patting their faces with ice and walking away closer to becoming socially invisible . All i could do was let him throw and kick and cry till tears of indignation were left like tiny photos flicked open from brass lockets for me to sweep away.

The flowers shudded as my father poked a european wasp nest with willow and a can of incesticide he created his own overcast day nearby. They writhered as babies freshly born to die thorax arching in mysterious itallics their wings crackling and my shoe print across vaporating eyes. A nest the size of your fist, not mine, fibre, soil, leaves regurgitated into perfect cells was filled with tiny white replications dotted with black-eyes-open witnessing this massacre recording death of the family to only be part of modern history, our contemporary revolution , their argument for devolution .

So tomorrow is sunday! i shall walk away into the world unchanged and pretty without my sugared heart but i know that eventually i will become nothing more than dirt for wasps to spit out .