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Monday 8th June 2015.

The white screen of live journal...looks impossible tonight..words that should trip to the screen are caught in the gas light inside my mind, slowly one or two trickle into my fingers as i haunt these keys.......i heard over the weekend...perhaps from my i-pod....or perhaps a passing wireless.... the tune...A whiter shade of pale...a string of words in fondness from the track, also trickles.." as the miller told his tale "....perhaps my favourite 60's tune that floods the gates of memories into sepia cells that drizzle across the dragon pit i fathom over on a Monday Morning, in an effort to calm the working saddle, i have to climb once more into, comfort is a thought provoking word,as i approach the magic age of 60 in the approaching blue month of November....Biff Bash Bosh..i can already hear it coming over the hill....
I wrap a tapestry of words around my suit of armour, to keep out the world news i have no wish to  think into abysmal small packages bobbing as corks on the horizon of my mind, hoping the life raft goblins will capture them before i do, thus leaving me in some form of peace...My old friend King Canute is becoming far to old to wash them away....on this Monday we smile at each other,sigh, then whispering..So Goeth..

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