May 03, 2004
Modus Operandi
The curtains drawn, all rectangles are blue. Four morning pigeons wheel in the school glue. I hate the treacherous light of December. Cold. I eat pumpkin soup out of the blender. The central heating grumbles: “You, get out.” Right. I put on my coat and off I go where the salted red herring of the pavement waits for the imminent snow. Trot, trot along, you, unbuttoned biped, across a skeleton of rusty tracks, with others clutching in hand their steamy paper cups- their secular candles. READ MORE >>
