As I weeble, trying to pick a direction to face on a freak free-seat day in the busiest station under London, she stares with hazel lasers, ignores my apology, gets me twitching "she knows me/she know
to my shame, like Johnny Five without the plea for “MORE INPUT!” bundling the sight roughly from my head only for it to push back through like the contents of an overstuffed cupboard.
D is my guide, meets me on the newest platform of a grizzled station. Even though you cannot miss the venue, I'm glad as I am late, sweating like a suspect, and if he is here, the band
Animals Gnawing Women and Children Men can be masticated by as many species of wildcat or wolf as there are letters on a mad optician's chart. If so much as a drop of drool