Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
The Orb has many shoes in it, beside it and some in the trees above it; lifted there by flood tides, and only occasionally thrown there in anger at the end of a boating season. It's well known - old boots gather at Beziers. We have a black plastic oddment that may be yours. It is barely worn, walks well, hopping mostly in an odd loping manner, like the wolf that didn't tear itself away from that river smell and that just perceptible sound of Robert Wyatt, Side 1, Rock Bottom: 'Oh dear me, it's God's what?'.
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