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Wednesday 7th November 2018.

The weather outside my window dribbles, the rush of rubber tyres for the tireless work horse ethic begins to build i to begin to think once more in work terms to pull on the old work boots shuffle in line. Crammed inside my head i ponder on my coming 63rd year walking this planet, i am chewing the cud on whether to slip some blinkers on over my busted bra dip my head in the sand bucket until summer once more sparks life in warmer winds, for i have never known such a past year in hammered media hype in doom and gloom as if the four horsemen of Apocalypse are coming over the hill... i am tired of this land dribbling over every action that Trump makes, i would not be surprised if video of Trump having a shit would grace the 7-o-clock news...Britex is another clout i have become tired weary of a few months without fingering a newspaper might just drag myself out of this melancholy madness i feel myself being pulled into and to think i only buy one over the weekend and thats for the new books articles coming on to the shelves....perhaps like soft porn newspapers should be out of reach on the top shelf wrapped in brown paper..with the news on TV...after 9-o-clock perhaps i am turning into a grummpy old soul time i think time to pull on my wrinkled stockings think of some thing with hope  wrapped in side, as thoughts of climbing into the new day begin and  just how quickly one slips back into life as we know it Jim from the few days i spent in Brussels. having already ebbed away into curled photo's and postcards...leaving possible if thoughts on next summer...So Goeth..

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bichoose
bichoose

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