fig. 8-11b) Cast your ballads and the pickles might come, cast them in the sand and some might be plucked for a thumb Like all the people that can't stand still, one or all of them. That I'm broken is how it feels to me but I don't care. Oh I certainly do care. I don't even joke about it. I care so much it hurts. I feel wickedly close to wretching on the sofa. If it were warmer today than I might even feel sick. But it's cool. It's a perfect late September The noise of it is itself a sort of reluctant vibrancy. Still it's deeply sympathetic gravy. Our concept of history isn't so very different either. Of course painting isn't the only thing that we can do. It's merely a strategy which allows for considerable analysis within the constraints of being us or more like us then we think. These are the things that we're talking about. By way of rosie, her ring and her horn. Moisten these blind fingers they're dry from indulgence, fr...