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Wednesday 22nd November 2017.

How many words can i scribble about the rain that hurled it's self across myself and the tiny red van i almost live in today..the concrete sky above invites melancholy madness to curl up under ones toes and sleep in warmth as foot prints are cast down lifes rocky road..i wonder if i took the right fork in the wood all those years ago would i have found a spot not quite plum full of rain drops..perhaps.
Is it possible to scribble a letter to ones self...in the hope..that should one pass around life again some where in the tapestry touched with new fingers i might find more than a rhubarb patch...with no droplets of rain.
Just a casting thought as the festive season begins to really gat a grip on my imagination..i wonder what ever happened to all those cabbage patch dolls parents were climbing over cars to reach....are they sat in a rowing boat rowing like hell to escape Mr Trump and his Jolly Roger..ship. Perhaps if one squirted him with the colours of the rainbow he might just stop and think..there again perhaps not...if your on that side of the pond or if your an American sat in a south african coal mine...Have Good day tomorrow...Love and Peace to you all....x

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