Entry Number Eleven: Riding on a shooting star

[diva_myron]

I was walking along the Crane a few days ago (or was it weeks?), and I felt: constipated?

{Let's altogether say: DISCO, NOW!}

[Private to Friends]

But yes, yes, I live. Kir and I have been jamming locked up in the house. I hate him again, he kept on teasing me about my melancholy. Maybe a new album is underway. !And I say we go!

It is inspired by Her.

[/Private to Friends]

On a small lonely cape sat an old man. In the louring light of the day, I could see every wrinkle on his face (I counted up to twenty three when I forgot which I'd already included), as I sat down near him. I dangled my feet in the air, just a few centimetres above the river water, and sang an old Irish song to him. He was fishing, actually.

He said, "Don't. My father was a Black and Tan."

I nodded and kept silent. We fished out four carps and one tench in the next few hours. When the sunset came, he cooked us dinner.

It was delicious.

[Private to Deirdre] [written in different ink]

I had a dream about you yesterday. You were floating on a cloud above my head. I thought I saw you smile.

I'm sorry I disappeared.

[/Private to Deirdre]