

the conversationalistslit-eye winter sun- rise buried to the hilt in common sense.the conversationalist
as if you
‘d answered my every fucking question speaking french-
quelle surprise indeed.
it’s October again, my darling for pity, oh. for pity’s sake, this talking in morse or semaphore is getting
older by the day.
these icy fingers are not persuaded by my plea of self defence, the jury’s out, the cock has crowed,
the books are falling from the shelves
like dodgy tape recordings of conversations overheard in dreams, &nbs
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