Thursday, August 27, 2009
I was outside, looking for scooters, their raspy burp, their noise and stutter and chrome accessories. Beasts and creatures from the 60s or thereabouts. This left me no choice other than to go home and compose crazy emails, none of which I ever send, the thought of the reader reading them and the potential exposure is too much. The grim reality that is actually far grimmer than reality itself but no I never was a big fan of the film Rosemary's Baby. Not my cup of tea, nor Mr Polanski and his wretched life nor Mia Farrow and her peculiar life. Peculiar like some but different in other ways. That just about sums up the death of the short story. No misspellings found.